YENDO A CASA


Era una noche apacible y fresca. Nubes grises cubrían el estrellado cielo como las amarillentas hojas cubren la tierra de un jardín otoñal cuyos árboles acaban de despojarse de sus vestimentas. Suavemente, el viento soplaba sobre las ramas desnudas de los árboles cuyos troncos habían sido desgastados con el andar de los siglos de los que habían sido testigos permaneciendo siempre estáticos observando y analizando los cambios que acaecían en el baile de las épocas.


Ernesto caminaba deambulante por las desoladas calles. Pasos fuertes y decididos sobre el pavimento húmedo. Sus dedos se entrecruzaban dentro de los bolsillos de su pantalón de marca que tanto le gustaba usar y que ahora sólo mostraba penosamente las señas del desgaste. Un cinturón de tela, un par de tenis sucios y una playera de algodón color oscuro que se confundía al fusionarse con los colores de las sombras nocturnas.Sus brazos reflejaban cierta tensión, misma que tenía su génesis en su mente. Sus labios mascullaban un discurso que él ya había estado ensayando desde hacía ya varias semanas.



¡ALTO! Leyó en un señalamiento de tránsito. Sabiendo que esta indicación no estaba dirigida a los transeúntes, analizó la orden detenida y concienzudamente. Obedeció como si estuviera dirigida a él. Se detuvo y fijó su mirada en una pequeña cerca de madera que difícilmente sobrepasaría el metro de altura. Se reclinó poniendo su peso sobre la cerca y se sentó reposando su hombro y su cabeza en ella.No quería llegar a su casa. Su mente daba miles de vueltas. Poco le importó que el pavimento aún conservara los rastros de una lluvia reciente, ni siquiera pensó en que sus pantalones de marca quedarían impregnados con ese líquido caído del cielo que ahora estaba combinado en perfecta simbiosis con aquel fluido que emanó de los cuerpos de los borrachos quienes lo vertían en las esquinas confundiéndolas con orinales públicos.


Su mirada perdida. Sus ojos dejaban ver el vestigio de una tragedia acontecida en su corazón. Su mente daba miles de vueltas. Los minutos trascurrían uno a uno y Ernesto permanecía inmóvil con la mirada fija en la nada. Sus cabellos vencidos por la gravedad le daban una apariencia sombría y triste.Cosquilleo en la oreja. Escalofrío. Rápidamente reaccionó sacudiéndose. Se dio cuenta de que era una simple cochinilla que sólo lo había usado como su autopista cerca de madera – pavimento. Cayó al suelo e inmediatamente se enroscó siguiendo su instinto de defensa y protección de los depredadores. Sabiéndose a salvo, comenzó a desenroscarse y retomó el camino hacia donde sólo ella sabía. Él la miraba atento. Envidiaba la libertad de la cochinilla y su efectivo sistema de defensa ante las inmundicias de la realidad.


Pretendía seguirla con la mirada y descubrir cuál era el destino de la cochinilla, pero el repicar de su celular perturbó su concentración:


- ¿Bueno?... sí, ya voy para allá. No te preocupes, má. Adiós…. Sí, estoy consciente de la hora que es. Ya voy para allá. Adiós mamá.


Su mente daba miles de vueltas.

As tears were rolling down his cheeks, Ringo felt there was nothing else he could have done diferently. He knew he had done everything he could, but still he felt a void in his heart. Why, in spite of all the things he had done, nothing had ended as he wanted? He felt opressed by his own feelings. KnOCk! knOcK!

- Who's that?

Nobody answered. He remained lying on his bed thinking to himself "it must have been mom". Nevertheless, it was strange. Usually, his mother knocked at the door and then screamed his name with her rusty voice that Ringo found so annoying.

He took a dirty napkin he'd used to clean his mouth after eating a slice of pepperoni pizza and used it to wipe off his tears. He stood up and went to the mirror who observed attentively everything that happened in that bedroom and reproduced it with astonishing precision. He took two steps towards the door and stood quietly as if waiting his mom to call him. Silence.

- Mom? Whatcha need? - He screamed with a dubitative voice.
- Yes, son? - Answered his mom
-Oh, nothing. I'll be in my bedroom if you need anything. - He said relieved.

He turned his head towards a small bookpacked desk where he used to prepare his projects. He noticed a little fly walking towards the pizza leftovers. First attempt to kill it: failed. Second attempt: failed. He gave up as the fly flew away. His thoughts flooded his head again and brought him into a state of numbness. He stretched his arms reaching out his bed and fell on the floor. It was cold. Winter was around the corner. Tears wouldn't come. Still, he felt overwhelmed.

If it wasn't mom...then who knock'd at the door? - The question struck his mind. He left his bedroom and asked her if she had knocked at his door:
-Yes, it was me, son. I thought you were sleeping. That's why I didn't say a word, but I'm glad you're finally up. Do you want to eat something?
- No, mom. Thanks. - He mumbled as he walked back to his bedroom.

I don't want to think about the same thing over and over again - He thought. He locked the door and the fly was still there dancing in the air. It was already driving him mad. He looked at his watch. It was 3pm. What could he do? He had no friends and his boyfriend had just dumped him awakening his insecurities.

What had gone wrong? He always thought they were ok. It was the first time he was in a love relationship with another guy, everything seemed so perfect...but it wasn't.

All this crying and thinking killed his energies. He felt exhausted and sat on the floor, leaned on his bed putting his head on the matress. Felt asleep. Slept...slept...and never woke up.

I know I'm not good at writing poems and I guess this cannot be considered one. I just started writing some ideas that came to mind and I put them as in verses. It doesn't matter if they don't rhyme. I just wanted to write something because I wanted to update this blog

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