Freeing slaves without shackles

Is this shitty ocambo a bastard, who takes advantage of it because I went to give him the pills and he tries to touch me?

If it weren't because I need the five hundred euros, I'd give it up right now, see if you can't find anyone else who is aware of your sugar dips and just moved to the other neighborhood.

Because you have to see that a cow has eaten the yagua after I separated from Manu, tumbling from one job to another, each time worse, as if she were the discoverer of the island of scoundrels, who pay in black, at a Alms the hour, wanting you to be with their parents for half of the retirement they have, and keep the rest to buy a square meter of joy, a millimeter of unconcern and a few grams, even if it were that, of wisdom to see what to do with their miserable lives, dull and parched as a tamarind pod.

That here you have everything, says the guy. You do not have to pay rent for a flat, nor costs of electricity and water, or even take care of food, I already told you that you could eat whatever you do for the old man.

Sure man, I wanted to tell him. Prisoners don't pay for those things either. And I'm here Monday through Sunday, listening to your father complain about chronic pain, heartburn, and inflamed hemorrhoids. The same thing sings a jota who calls his mother, the unhappy one, without stopping to ask who I am and shouting that he is going to fry asparagus.

Taking advantage of the half hour that I go to the pharmacy or the market to sit for a while in the park and envy the sparrows.

And make another mark on the calendar, which I have said so many times would be the last, to finish requesting the voluntary return, postponed and postponed again, to kick my ass and send me headlong to that other reality, of where maybe, it shouldn't have come out.

Because dreams are delicious when you are asleep, and if you wake up here in the old continent, awakened by the snoring of the one who seemed younger on the computer screen, kinder and affectionate, less coarse and selfish, and above all, with less smell rancid oil on the neck from not showering. But how could I know ten thousand kilometers away, blindfolded by the desire to flee from the scarcity that was not misery, as I later learned?

And now without documents, an expired passport and a job more like that of eighteenth-century blacks, lonelier than a parrot in the Mojave desert, longing for the ballast that I threw overboard to fly away, with more unsolved doubts and almost no logs to stoke the fire, and then I look at this window of the room, in the middle of the night and I scold Olofi, because let's see why the hell he gives me these shitty snails, so that I can play them.

Answer me the fuck! I blame nothing, the yellow lights on the road, or those that twinkle in the sky, where no one can disturb them.

And suddenly they become bigger and with more colors when they pass through the water of my tears, more beautiful and it makes me angry.

Then I lie on my back in the middle of the morning, as if I were a castaway on a board, a seagull that has lost its compass and cannot find its beach, a bonfire that runs out of logs and goes out.

And it seems that I have been fried because I am awakened by the laments of the grandfather who has shit in his diaper and is annoyed and I hold my breath and clean it with warm water, I put on a cologne and the degenerate smiles with his lustful or lost eyes Who knows why I don't give a damn about lacks, while I comfort myself by thinking that who knows if I will find another job, better paid, more human, at least with a grandmother who is not Lesvian, because I have nothing against them, but I like kisses with beard scratches and suckle those eternal, rude and scared children.

Suddenly I wonder how long I am going to continue dreaming, waiting for something to happen, for a lover to arrive, that he has documents and grandfather does not shit, that a comet passes by distributing guava candy.

How long am I going to continue hunting for little weeks that will appease my hunger to walk around loose, barefoot, letting the rain soak my back.

And they begin to flutter around me, as if they knew that it smells rotten, that something in me dies between rales of anxiety and despair. And I see myself as a boxer, looking at the coach to throw in the towel, at Ochún to show me the shortest way to get out of the game and put an end to all this sugarcane waste at once, because I can't continue with me in tow, and all the problems.

Then the image of a strong woman comes to me carrying another asleep in a queen's dress and I am left thinking which one of the two I am, while I feel that everything is spinning around me and I am climbing on a tail of cloud to where the Donut is waiting for me. yellow with blacks and everything.

The next morning I woke up in the same cold and lonely room, with the same complaints as my grandfather, the curtains that let through some rays of the morning sun, and a sense of well-being and inner peace that were new in my entire existence. Something surrounded the few pieces of furniture in the room, a mysterious halo that gave them life, the noise of a train passing in the distance, the contact of the robe on my skin, the slippers and the lip crayon.

Now each step that my feet take, each object that my hands touch, is a blessed gift, an anchor that my boat is dropping in the sea of the present, a treasure of peace that I am accumulating.