The only moving thing that populates the blank of this screen is a small fly, jumping from one coordinate to another, tasting the bunch of scattered spots, fried onto the plasma, some of them hours or days old, others being here for months, getting close to a year. I would like to know which food does each of them come from, and what makes concern about my momentary lucidity arrive in a pompous manner, making its very presence here doubtful, is that right now I would rather know such an answer, instead of one to the question which a weekend evening couldn’t spare me from asking: did I just do something wrong by accident or is doing the wrong thing a part of me so inseparable, that achieving a bit more than a state of regret, immediate to something that I’ve said and has produced a hurtful effect on someone I’d rather see intact in all respects, is an ambition which will be subjected to an unstoppable amount of arguments with my self-fucking self, for as long as my life will be tolerated here?

Either way, looking at past memories is always a merrier distraction than taking the pulse of the present. But as I browse through pictures, and emails, and messages in my phone, documents in my google drive, the calendar with its usual menstrual notes, always abbreviated, and also my facebook activity (or, as I never cease to punctuate – its lack there), I begin to remember. I really do have a light memory, one that only a person as dedicated to small things and a silent advocate of a type of treatment to personal trauma and dissapointment a little more cowardly than I would have liked to expect to be possible, can have. I dig in the graves, and take out the trash that found the time to flourish its rot. What a sight!

Curious enough, our bicycle walks in summer were magical, but so rare. I am always surprised at the determined resistance I can show towards giving in to a scenario I know I would cherish, but which takes me out of my chair, my room, and places me in a position where interaction with the outer world is simply inevitable. Obviously, I come home a different person; my cheeks are said to gain a bit of color, my eyes sparkle naturally, and my moves are more light and lively. My natural frowning state is visibly diminished. But neither the memory that lingers in my senses, nor the argumentative pleas of my next-of-skin can drag me soon again out of my familiar place, where I gobble my daily sources of discontent with the meticulous greed of a dog eating a bone to the barest.

So, these pictures of August are beautiful as they are, encapsulating a piece of nature that now is merely minutes away from my home, a piece of intimate heaven, where late summer dusk pours over a richness of silence and words that bring in a “golden” state of mind, as I’ve come to encounter it. But seeing and knowing myself in it is less than encouraging. Me, who never has enough to blame, who can never insinuate enough drama into plain daily bullshit, and who should never be taken seriously, when that sparkle in the eye is nowhere to be found.











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