Que hacen los países después de perder una guerra? Después de recibir una bomba? Como te levantas después de haberte roto los huesos?
My dreams, as premonitions. They all come true. One by one warning me the day off. I always found ways to hide the bullets. I got used to their sting and the space they held in my body. They made me feel. I gave them names. But one day I woke up and my body was swollen. Purple. They had been stored for too long and their damage was showing off. I had to do something about it but it was so painful, incredibly painful to take the bullets off my deep skin. I am still not sure exactly how or when they were finally removed.
I woke up and I did not fell them anymore. The old man in the chair next to me told me that I went into a deep sleep, some nights he would spot tears adoring my cheeks. Birds used to come with dry red leafs leaving them at the feet of my bed, waiting for my slow death. Some nights an owl would sing a sad song. One day he played a drum. His childhood drum, as a gesture of compassion. His drum beats resounded in the chamber of my heart. And I opened my eyes colored as purple as the depths of the sea. I exhaled as if someone was pushing my belly and I sat down with a jump. I started laughing like a mad man and he did not stop playing. He kept beating the drums at the pace of my heartbeats and his eyes staring at me with all the detachment of the world. Fearless. I closed my eyes once again and waited till the next morning at 6am to leave.
I remember those days as a mute pain. They changed me profoundly, leaving scars which with time I shall forget their placements. They will become part of me, an old book, a forgotten friend, a plant that died, my childhood dogs, an old recurring nightmare. I remember the days when the bullets were deep wounds, I remember my screams. And now I am here, sitting in silence, seeing where they lead me. Remembering them with bitter love.