Mutes

I pity us, I really do: the insanity of our language, its incapacity of naming anything that's really worth naming, its endless inaccuracies, its violent lack of hope. I look at you and wonder if you have ever felt the same way about me as I feel about you, but I can't ask you, because I really can't explain IT. So, I remain silent and let our future die away. When I reach the street, an Icelandic wind punches me like a young boxer eager for success. It aches, but it also comforts me. Madrid has never been as coldly dull as tonight. I walk and cry or cry and walk. I am no longer sure of the order of the factors. What was first? Your doubts or my fear? Does it really matter? The world is full of mutes, of people who cannot say what they truly mean, what they desperately need to explain, because their language fails and betrays them. We are two of those disabled people. Or maybe it's just me, but then the drama would be even greater. I arrive home and smell the death of the roses that the wrong guy gave me for Valentine's day. I should throw them away, but they fit my certainty that LOVE is rotten and so am I.