Time expired in the 90s

 

The time we invent is useful on the shelves in the living room, between the books, the ones that don't and the ones that do, the ones I'm going to burn, and the others, that I'm going to keep, between the kitchen shelves, between the crockery that I broke today and the ones that I continue to safeguard, those that I'm going to put in the container and those that I'm going to donate. Time sometimes flies by, yields nothing, and sometimes slows down, like my wrist swatch, which is delayed or advanced, depending on my mood. Time stinks of old and always appears new, because it is convenient for us to dismiss the equinoxes and separate them from the solstices, to fill the moons and empty them, to meet deadlines, to allow agreements, to renounce causes or battles, but time, my love, time is a voracious animal. And if time is what we make of it, mine has been a lone wolf, a serpent in the tree, stalking prey, a bear, hibernating with me, while I dream of you and punish myself from you. 

Time in a woman's chest can be capricious and difficult to understand, obeying memories and healing pain. When you live a lot, you keep a lot, so many that you have left and come out of you, denouncing yourself, daring and sad, until you can see them and say, you're still there, you're still alive. 

I go back, obviously, to the precious moment, the adjective is mine and I use and abuse as much as I want the words that guard your presence. And from your mouth, a question came out, but in fact, I know, God was present, it was not just a question, but a series of questions, which wanted to break your mouth, your lips, run towards me, like arrows full of a poison that the characters who inhabit you had parceled out, striking and staining that moment of looking at you and,  Still, they didn't fall through your mouth, they got stuck in your tongue, in your teeth, in your saliva and I, ecstatic, didn't even know how to answer or ask you to reformulate. I was literally astonished, inert, hypnotized. He did not know how to answer, what was the question, after all, if there were so many and if they ran over each other on the way to being uttered, but I did not cry at that moment, I did not find pain, but understanding. I cried afterwards, not because my understanding had escaped me for this trampling of time, but because I could no longer look at you, in the concrete of the days. And not to see you is to lose sight of myself. My eyes were beggars, despairing that there could be more time or that limiting demon that stole me from such contemplation may not exist in your life. And if I were a lady, owner of time, I would have stopped the universe at that second when your mouth opened to speak to me, because from the window of your eyes I could see myself again, whole, there, me in your eyes, I found myself again and I was able to recognize myself and to continue alive. Time is a trickster with me, because when I dream of you, it rides and when I think of you, it distances you to an impossible alley. That's where I am. I already know that they are words, they are just words like saying wind or storm, tidal wave or violence. The violence of having found myself in you and having lost myself again. I don't worry. I will always be at the window of your eyes that look at the world in a unique and humble way. You who were the past and who are the present, are, inside the book of life that is on my bedside table, in the future without time. When I spoke to my father for the last time, he told me that I was burning final stages. Fundamental. And that the future was designed by me, by my fingers, by my eyes and measured by my heart, by the rhythm of the musical notes that I will put on the agenda. That the agenda is all mine. My father will always be kind to me. Generous. Hearty. A true gentleman. But he is right. And I want to tell you that the past obeys time, chronologically measured in eras, in revolutions, in ingenious inventions and others less, just like the present of now, of the compasses that humanity is weaving, without great awareness, for the most part, of its impacts, ahead. In the future, he has no more time, he dispenses with it. Because the future is a flock of birds that flutter in the sky, and the sky cannot be attributed prisons like time and the state, because it is free and free from our intentions with it. The future is all Aquarius, so much Pluto in it, with no time that can resist its transformations and rebirths, to the future belongs the music that is free and played in the mouth of an innocent child or a capricious tenor, of an old keyboard or another of the new generation, that music, when it is music, is born without time and is called timeless and contemporary, and all forms of cataloguing do not imprison, because it, like birds, obeys a freedom of authenticity that no lesser God can create shackles and imprison. Music and mathematics are free, human thought is free, and everything that is free, like love, does not suffer from privatization, flies free from one chest to the other, unconditionally, regardless of whether you want it or not. Like Neptune at the beginning of the universe, there is no one to stop it, it will stop, it will dissolve these capsules, these beliefs of the apparent civilization and lead us to new directions that have not yet been cataloged. They will hardly be for the next century. To Saturn what is of Saturn, lord of time. My love is not a standing watch telling time, nor the Big Ben watch, punctual and British, my love is not a casual, disposable wristwatch full of apps.  My love does not obey brakes or tenses, except when I think of you. And at that point, I dispense with the watch. And when I dream of you, which is my most playful and most beautiful part, waltzing, I dream of you on all platforms in all worlds. And I go to the moon and back, passing by the stars that I love. You are the most beautiful and oldest star, in which the time of men could never be mirrored. There is not, I repeat, there will never be people, time or any other human invention that can limit, condemn, judge, appreciate and truly understand love from within. And much less death, which is the way of saying that that body has expired, the date. That love doesn't expire, when it is. Your love is freedom, the bird that flies to the brightest star and feels at home. And so it is when I see you. I take off my shoes and go home. And you are that house. Up there, as down here. And don't be extinguished, because you are that star.