The dun cat

It is late in the morning, the sun rising high, shimmering through the streets and against all those quaint houses’ limed facades in one of Cádiz’s prettiest and loneliest neighbourhoods. Almost no one’s out. It’s just too hot.

Sat on yet another whitish wall, with his legs up as if he were afraid to fall, a young boy awaits the appearance of the dun cat that lives on the other side of the road. Soft coffee-coloured hair, dark tanned and with attentive eyes, the child is six, as is the dun cat. They were born five days apart.

Time seems to have gone still. No clock ticking, no noise. Just the sun, the terracotta cobble stone road and the low white buildings. The cat’s nowhere to be seen.

A soft breeze starts dancing around the corner. Tentatively, it reaches the boy, who breathes it in. Inside him, the breeze straightens the kid up a bit. The boy patiently sights, and lets go of the air. Free again, the swirling wind goes on with its choreography.

Accompanied by a subtle purr, the meandering tail with the black spotted end comes into sight. The boy fixates his gaze upon it. One, two, three spots. It’s the dun cat. The animal tentatively comes into sight, dodging the burning metal pipe on its side. Without looking at the boy, it jumps and lands on a windowsill, and afterwards disappears through the ground floor’s open window.

The boy seems content. A smile ghosts around the corners of his mouth. People say he is sweet. Sweet enough to let his sister wrestle with her tiny fits when he is told to put her to bed. Sweet enough to let her play with his hair to get her to sleep. Sweet to his grandma, who can not remember him, but smiles regardless when he hugs her.

Carefully, the kid gets up on top of the wall and slowly makes his way across it and down some narrow, almost imperceptible steps. He lands on the street. His name is Marco. It’s summer.

A cute tiny human walks away. The dun cat, unnoticeable behind the thin linen curtain that hangs in front of the window, follows him with its greenish eyes until the cute tiny human is out of sight. Content, the dun cat purrs. It’s summer in Andalucía.

Classroom 9

Fresh air. It soothes you through the trance of accomplishing to get through your very first day. It soothes me. Rocks me.

I head to the bus stop in Labrit, first one in the row of two. Or are there three. The villavesa is buzzing with salutations; greetings which may be forced out of compromise, other ‘hi’s full of excitement and meaning. I do not know anybody, so I just let myself be under the effect of music. Until I realize I do. Forced salutation; maybe not so much. It smells like fuel.

The breeze hits me again as I walk down the path to the faculty. The tall, gray, concrete building rises in front of a large, even grayer square. The red Fcom letters shine as if just polished. Picture windows let me see both the reflection of the scenery on them and the long corridor already full of people inside. And all of a sudden the uncertainty, the slight sloth, evaporates into thin air. I walk in and I get the sense of tranquility, of satisfaction, that I developed last year. It is peaceful in here. Quaint. Special.

Classroom 9. One, two, three girls. One boy. Four, five, six girls. Another girl. The other boy. Me.

Warm-hearted hugs. Back to the chocolate from Guayaquil, to pottery from Tuxpan. To worldwide accents. To people.

Sweet, poisonous, thorny

Come here, let me take away your breath. Just for a few minutes, just until you get out from your cage.

Have I startled you? There shall be no fear. No fear-can to be popped open. Just unconditional revenge. Kidding, my lad. Don’t worry. Open up your heart, let me go inside. You’d do the same for me.

Punished me against a wall. You can surely leave me to work on your machinery. It ain’t working properly, my friend. No, no.

It really isn’t. First you know you don’t want the guy. You play the guy. You don’t know how on Earth you might stop. And suddenly you both break apart, no friendship even. It’s all your damn fault. Sweetie. Yeah, we shall not forget our education; you sweet, poisonous, thorny piece of existence.

Rose bushes aren’t that big of a deal. Not that appetizing, ha? Oh, those thorns. You can’t grab them entirely. Just when they let you, where they let you. But they’re beautiful, still, no? Beautiful to look at, just that.

You are a rose bush, my dear. A rose bush kind of beautiful.

1st Composition

That makes it forever.

Love is gone

way up to your head,

you can’t even remember…

Try to hold on and don’t get lost.

Disclaim the fire.

Make it worth it,

being with me.

Stop trying to play up inside my brain,

trying to make it all the same.

Please, do.

Oh, do fight it.

Believe in what we should,

and forget what we may not.

Just try to figure out what it felt like,

counting on you and only you.

Make it worth it,

being with me.

Stop trying to play up inside my brain.

Oh, please, fight it.

Holding on

If we can’t hold these walls by ourselves we’d better cut it off. Leave the past where it should have been left and try to forget. We both know how it tasted when we fell down the cliff into the frozen waves down below. Even afterwards we tried again. It’s no coincidence you’re remembering that feeling right now, right away as we crush together desperately, tugging, and hit our backs with the bricks which haven’t been demolished throughout this whole battle we’ve endured.

Cry out-loud what’s harming you. They are those rocks you felt that day under your bare foot before jumping, aren’t they? Aren’t they that something that’s getting ride of you? That something that you are trespassing to me through our touching lips?

I know it’s hard to let go when you’re not certain about what’s going to happen next. I’ve suffered from that mystery so many times I still recall how it obscures everything you try to focus on to hold on.

It’s not strange to be determinate about something -or someone- and end up not knowing what that was about.

In the end, it all comes down to one single question. Y’ want it? Or not?

Lemme help. There ain’t a single way by which you can give an answer right away. But try to find a source to help you out.

Me? Oh, no. Don’t. I’m not that source. I’m just the girl next door. The one between you and the wall. Feeling your heartbeat racing ‘cause you’re loosing it. Wishing you don’t end up crushing me in your attack.

A thought crossed my mind back then, suggesting this might end up like this. You, me, the wall and your anxiety. I decided to give it a try. Don’t worry, I’m not sorry.

While you keep on holding my waist with both your soft hands I start to feel you growing tense. Your fingers grasp the end of my t-shirt and beginning of my jeans as if those would keep you from dying. This I’m sorry about: they won’t.

Either way, you don’t seem likely to stop. I’m not asking you to. Do whatever you like. I just want to warn you that I won’t fall with you. You stay, great. You go away, I’m not crying ‘til I can’t hold myself. I committed that crime once, twice. By the third time I had learnt from it. I may miss you, true. But, either way. If two people aren’t meant to be together they won’t be, it’s not worth it to cry over everything that was and won’t be. Better to part away. And I know we’re not meant to be.

Oh, I know you haven’t discovered that yet and you’re clutching to the last traces of what we had. I don’t mind, it’s not a problem to me. And, please, don’t think I’m hideous or sadistic. I learnt the hard way. Even though, I feel it in your mouth. Somewhere inside of you there’s this part of your soul which knows what’s going on and isn’t going to cry when the time comes. If I didn’t sense it I wouldn’t let you wonder through my and yourself. I would help you. I would cut it off myself. But it’s not the case, you strong boy.

Keep on, keep on. I’ll be here until you release me or… until you release yourself.