Ismael Zúñiga
The dust vanishes from the mirror’s crystal, blowing far into the valley, past the strait released on the desert. Endless nodulations of dunes where I would love to run and jump into the air as if in a dream.
-Narcissus, I see your boot’s footprint!
-Did you know of Abraham? Who quietly fled his misery and found God? Is he available in the front booth of this lonely building?
While writing there is mystery and light, or maybe just signs, scribbles on pale nothing. Yet God is the word. God is this very ink splotching the white paper. Does God stare at me staring into the reflection where the dust left me? The dust knew and so did Mallarmé that misery is God being honest. So I run in search of lies to keep me fat and bursting into quiet laughter of crooked teeth. I hope they smile back. If not it’s alright. Everything seems not alright though, we balance on a string that blurs itself into the horizon of burning ruin; we laugh sarcastically to not cry. Like the meme of the little girl’s evil smile in front of her house on fire. That’s an old one now. It’s been a long time and it has felt like a flashing moment. Nothing and everything has happened, and I can’t tell you exactly what. 2008-2021: like a Pollock painting. Confronting that that’s how it will keep on being, life will pass faster, the spills on the canvas will get denser and denser as my brain decays with all this rum, wine and beer that is flowing, all the maría we are burning.
I think I will come out of it alive, a little bit burnt, my hair disheveled and with the realization of something clear. Divinity at the window when I have finally been consumed by this room. This white room that duplicates me and the other I touches my arm.
We must find a pit to dive in; do not dive into the same one as I, nothing is achieved if not in solitude. Unless you want to walk around the city, then you must find someone. Without love it becomes hell. Are there fields of olive trees where I can find you dancing and everything is alright? Where the ground won't hurt us if we are barefoot? A tear comes down your cheek, you’re not sad though, it is a tear of contentement because you haven’t had it for so long that you’re in awe, I’m in awe that I found you and that I found myself. That’s an unrealistic Eden of no pain, while Eden must have nobody. Emptiness can bring peace, and paradoxically, fulfilment, so take me to the desert where I saw Narcissus' footprint, so I can see his silhouette disappearing into the blowing wind and remember it forever, unlike the past years. After the dunes there are more, and after those, more, and continuously until the sand runs out; the last few grains scattered on a concrete surface that smells of death. There are structures half finished or that at some point were completed and people walked, ate, fucked and talked inside them, but time has given them in to decadence, vacuity and the wind.
Still I will find joy in this, bury myself in it, like Cernuda wrote, ¨Envuelto en una paz apocalíptica.¨
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