The game on a trump card
Now, I speak only to you, who understands me, because it is to you that I always speak, whether in solo monologues, in the drafts of the shadow diary, or on virtual paper online. Please, point and conduct that baton for me, let my tongue loose and bring me your agenda to compose the anti-corruption, anti-landmine, anti-fascism manifesto. I am from other human camps. I bring scissors, scalpel, sword, daggers, I bring the moiras and I come dressed in organdy and symbolism, to scare away the infamous hypocrisy of lukewarm people, rhyming with cuckolds to everyone I met, on their reverse side. And I dedicate the annex of the game of life to you, because that is how you got to know me, and it will be how you will renew your gaze, directed at me, perhaps inclined, in this text.
The wall was in front of me. Perfectly framed in a past that wasn't mine. In other words, I only had the passing of the baton, the reading of the moment that was not mine forced me into the loving secrecy of this hot, cold and lukewarm game. Scorching for me. Which means that I am averse to intermediate positions, unless that implies violence and then, you know, I withdraw and give in, raising patience as a flag, but it is before the banner of being whole that I do not accept manipulation, the game has begun. Whoever didn't come in, come in; whoever came in never leaves, and so on.
It was now or never and I dropped the letter, folded into the smallest geometric design, in the shape of a triangular wing. Between the crack of two overlapping stones, with a worn corner, purposely chosen to fit there, and of course, only in my heart lived the happy girl woman who listened to the surroundings as a prophecy of this silence, which was safeguarded in the family, in the hope that you would remember, the game that was not ours, but that belongs to us too. The game of life, of hot and cold, where spring comes and heats up and autumn comes and cools down, sometimes in decades spread out to last longer, to suffer more, for the chosen captivity of this game, on this board of life, where one day, someone, random, hits the "head" of the other side, of the opponent, and makes checkmate, without killing, or perhaps, killing little by little, slowly, to hurt more, but I told you that, also in the refinements of cruelty, or in the absence of conscience and details, are we chosen at random?, when we don't know how to play, not knowing the rules, or adapting them to our interests, in a single day, in a fraction of a second, we live through all the seasons, the chill of fear, of rupture, the shiver of cold, of abandonment, the inviting warmth of starting over again, even without strength, crawling, humiliated like sad clowns, chosen as court jesters, and, perhaps, if the pains and wounds are not deep or, in some way, are outdated, who knows, luck can kiss me up close, you, the summer volcano, the peak of mercury in our body, passion, the blood inside and noble, the opposite of vile, raising the sublime temperatures, the scores of God, that love can be revolutionary, when we give it attention or opportunity. And in the wing-shaped letter, of the geometry of the gods, which you open in parts, dismantle the pyramid, and come across the quadrilateral base, to recognize the uncertain handwriting, the complex scribble, the depth or superficiality of the message, the description of the journey, without rules, without goals, for now, arranged only, like the sweet warmth of spring, in the clusters of wisteria, in the softness of saying oh, falling like a warm sigh in the warmth of the sunset, in a long late afternoon, my chin on your shoulder, filling your chest with air, my arm hugging you in the entanglement and the magic returning, and the reader is asked the question, if he allows, to ask his left eye if the other eye wants to read, and the other responds that it is already anticipating it, unfolding more geometries that are sustained by the trinity, that the meteorological barometer, being able to go from hot to cold, can invert poles and become frozen and it is all perspective and introspection of whoever holds the letter in hand and uses it in his own way and pleasure, that it may happen that it is night and there is not enough light and the soul is summoned, the call is only internalized when the reader has full access to the content of the message, that a simple rule can distort what was born twisted, or that the belief of being blind, limited by others and their diffuse rules is overcome and, upon identifying life, you scream hotly when you feel hit by the wave that approaches history and you see yourself painted and whole, you shout rain and behold, from your uneven eyes, the first tropical rains can fall, untempered, on that beach towel where one day, many days, you came to count the waves, with me by your side, protected by your distracted wandering by the sea, where we burst lava, without ever extinguishing ourselves, you saw me between the dance of the rain with the waves, on the Korg t-shirt, as if the chords were born there, in the anticipated change of paradigm, on the base of the white, all that blue, the boat in the background composing the memory board, the little one among us, in a phobia of small grains, fought against the sand, believing that it would swallow him, if it could touch him, and it was sea spray, it was symphony and surf, high sea, on the Korg keyboard mat, your fingers insinuated, the support of our steps forward, and you said cold, when I refer to you in the milky past of the day, the one that stole from me, which happened to happen, the one in which you turned your back, on the melody and, without wanting to, nor believing, you made it dissonant, already far from the sea, in a long time without answers, already far from all the promises, and you screamed coldly and so did I, without ever touching you, being inside, bothering, scraping, tearing the crust of our inner turmoil, of the big dipper, of the dazzling moments that dictated the distance, the consequence; and everything came forward and became impregnated with emptiness, with being hollow and absent to combat the magic that was once present, the jinx, the witchcraft, the spell of the diabolical game of the fake rules that others played for us, in the ugly and hidden way of pretending to be a person when you are not an adult but always an adulteress, I silence my voice to measure your impedance, the recess, but the game continues, unfold the last flap and you will find what began and in this part of the letter it ends where it once began, the rose of Hiroshima, my love, who returns to the heat and the extreme heat, when you realize that not even so, the volcano was extinguished, who asks where and looks for signs, between the nights where insomnia shelters you and you scream, still from the wound, still this wound making itself bleed, still, still the tumult, what died is not dead and was silenced by sources external to us, and you read us and look to the side, I am not there, because I am inside, and it is from inside that I speak to you, that I write to you, that I feel you and that I sense, of destiny to this letter, another decade of absinthe, of escapism, I only sense but I manifest its opposite, and I say abundant and generous, more than lukewarm, urgent, burning in the incandescence and in the emergency of needing you, my love given to an imposing wall that grew from the weather, and I draw you the flower and the poem you gave me, and I add another, a sign of your absence growing like an appendix, inside, internal, and I expose the nerve, for your consideration and even if it is only lukewarm, whether it is cold or icy, I tell you that in me fruits are born from the flowers that you once sowed in our garden, and that I will harvest alone or accompanied, in summer on my skin. I will make honey from this harvest of which you were once the gardener. I tell you, scalding, the daughter of the Hot Summer and the Prague Spring, treading lightly on the ground, brooding over the stones that were placed to keep me away and the rain fell and did not take away, it only washed away the hot, scalding love that I serve you on the Castle wall, leaning against the window, from where I can see the sea, by faith and this game that I pushed onto paper, it was life that gave me, and said: Take off your clothes and go into the sea and enjoy the surge of the symphony in F sharp flat, before another wave comes and takes you, covers you, locks you in the place where they left you to wither until now, using the already illustrated bait, hook, asterisk, and you read my signature, name and family surname, but the game is wrong, I add a new rule and from the drawn volcano, houses, yards, trees, flowers and animals were reborn, and so many tufts of grass and so much of myself that I kept, that I wondered if that crack in the wall still existed, because I woke up and didn't feel the warmth of your body or the sweetness of your gaze, guaranteeing me the physical and playful experience of manifesting reality. The game of life mixing in the dream and I shouting at the waves, at the storm that hit my body and I, always me, all me, contradicting with music, the foolishness of the master teaching the student that life is patience, a little virtue in waiting and spring always blooming, even when you say nothing, not even please, be quiet, when you don't shout and just hide the word in the silence, that you gagged between your tongue and your glottis, between your teeth, and I shout for you in this room, and I spell the place again, and I renew the adjectives of the game, icy, cold, hot and scalding, where I see the mountains and the sea and I shout, without you hearing me, your name that is a kind of code to leave you and enter me again and annoyed, the word fresh comes out of me. It's the paint on this game's screen starting to peel, asking for recycling. And I understand that the wall was, after all, the metaphor through which the character in the real story moved away from the heat, causing the rupture in that love. The first one. The fresco will be completed by hands other than these. Yes, it's cool. I fold the letter again, a wing, a triangle of hope in the flap of your indifference, in the matter of the child, when I crumble again, into dust, into the ashes of the phoenix heading for the sky, which is where I came from and where I belong, on a quick day, not this one, the day when a larva becomes a butterfly after a narrow birth of us, I cut Rapunzel's braid, I leave you without a ladder, without an escape, without anything else, I get rid of the dance, of the duet, eliminating the tenuous warmth of the lukewarm, and I build the road that will take me away from the moss, from the hindrance, from the deception, from the fraud, finally, I shout the hot word and water it with the mischief of the other, and I shout fire, the fire leaving the circumscribed, what you didn't say and should have said, and since I'm so young now, I don't accept playing by the laws of ungrateful life, I've been a novice and a mermaid, I rewind everything and I'm alone bee collecting honey, sculpting hives, detecting distractions, frauds with the naked eye, tearing apart the weeping and crystallized obsolete pattern of letting myself be imprisoned, hostile, as if I had been born without wings, to be a slave, unlike writing. And then, the duet over, two of me, girl and woman, four hands, from the oven, that of waiting for you, the one who played the game and was a silent and eyewitness. And from two I become one. At the end of the day, at the end of the month, with April giving birth, in the manifestation of the probable, in a vase of earth and water, which I reserve for the post-revolution, this flower that I was will be reborn whole, from this girl woman, a new bud of freedom will burst. The early embryo of August replacing the endorsement of this letter ticket, of the game that I did not invent. Until then, my love, time remains extreme, while you silence the adjective and I feel you imperfect, which is like saying inside out and I find the way to shout goodbye, and it is too late to do so and too early to continue this certainty, to have the courage to abandon the keep, as if I were just turning the table, adding a rule made by me, to serve as a decree. It will never be too late to be myself, whole. I will be April and find May. And it will be ripe for the picking.
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