It's always clementime

Welcome to my blog, fellow traveler. I'm informed you've been properly briefed about the sort of writings you will find here. It would be a mistake of cataclysmic consequences (visualize the Death Star destroying Alderaan, or the person sitting behind you on a long flight resting their shoeless and sockless feet on your arm rests) to allow you, fellow traveler, to square up to the many oddities enclosed here without a basic understanding of fringe human behavior or, in its absence, a PhD on Psychology. Since I trust my informers as much as myself, I will sum up now the main two motives behind this book-like blog.

1. One of the more pressing issues the world faces today is that humans don't eat enough clementines and, when they do, the clementines tend to be of low quality. The main purpose of this blog is to remind the world that it's always time for a clementine, even if they are of inferior caliber. I proceeded to conjunct that phrase, in clever fashion, into the title of this blog, Clementime. I've been adviced not to praise myself like I just did but what can you do, fellow traveler, when I've taken the proper measures and made it impossible for you to contact me and make me see the wrong in my ways.

2. The second reason behind this blog is of more practical nature and will answer the question of why not keeping all of this to myself. First I must soothe you, fellow traveler; at the time of writing I don't have a particular criminal scheme in mind. It is for crimes that I might commit in the future that I'm collecting and making public all these thoughts, in order to add weight to a defense of "guilty but mentally ill". This is just me finally assimilating the advice of being more future-minded. Acting as the functional member of society that I aspire to become I'm finally being proactive.

Trusting I've done an acceptable job at explaining myself I leave you, fellow traveler, hoping that you will find joy here and elsewhere.

J.

Tacoronte, 2019.

Melanocetus johnsonii

On the surface the weather is calm. The Sun shines high, happy to delight with its boundless heat. Passing clouds take into their hands regulating the incoming energy to make the surface comfortably warm. The wind blows softly as if in no hurry to be anywhere, its whisper only broken by the chatter of distant birds. The flat, salty waters make the sailing smooth.

Below the surface, however, the weather is no more. The deeper the waters the less effective the Sun is in affecting the circumstances. Sounds become noise and the superficial warmth is cancelled by cold currents flowing from the polar regions. A couple of kilometers down, where the sunlight can't reach and the only truce of darkness comes from the light that a handful of deep sea creatures carry themselves, lives an extraordinary creature: Melanocetus johnsonii.

Such is the analogy I used to convey the progression and possibilities of a relationship. It usually starts on the surface where the conversations are calm and the sailing harmless. At some point the debate arises about how prudent it would be to test the waters, to maybe dip a toe in it. Two could spend a lifetime here on the surface, licking each other's junk, satisfied and uninterested about the waters below. A sensible approach by any means, as valid as it is safe.

(It is a sign of wisdom to know how far an analogy can stretch in order to stop before it breaks.)

I am not much of a surface dweller, as fine as it can temporarily be. The fine weather unsettles me and the light is often blinding. I'm cautious (coward?) enough to not bring out the subject of the ocean myself until the other party makes the mistake of doing it first. Before we have had the chance to clear the rules of the dialogue I've already thrown myself overboard, nose first, hungry for the barely lit ocean depths.

And down I go, one lungful of air, diving towards increasingly darker waters, fleeing from the light in search of an ugly, self-lighting creature, heading both home and to the unknown.

And depthwards I keep going, looking for the johnsonii that makes the ocean.

January 2020. A plane from Tenerife Norte to Barcelona.

A Story Featuring Ghosts

"I am not a ghost, I am a specter," said Jay.

He covered his eyes with his translucent hands and fired a mean look through them. The other members of the ghost support group murmured and sighed, failing to be defied by Jay's best look of defiance. Goryō, the government appointed moderator, broke the awkward silence.

"According to this," Goryō said while shuffling folders and papers, "you are the spirit of a former software engineer called Jay Sepelin. Former Jay died in strange circumstances well before his due time... blah blah blah, leaving... Here! Listen. Leaving unresolved issues..."

"I am not a ghost, I am a specter," insisted Jay.

"...unresolved issues of the kind that blocks a soul from passing through to the next phase."

"I don't care about former Jay's fake unresolved issues. What does it say on those fancy papers of yours?"

The fancy papers shuffled more.

"Ah! Yes," continued Goryō. "Apparently former Jay wanted to learn water skiing."

The whole room erupted in ghostly laughter.

"How lame is that?" asked Jay in disbelief. "Certainly that's not the kind of issue that blocks a soul from eternal rest, is it? Aren't these kinds of issues supposed to be more grandiose in nature?"

"Well, that's a widespread myth about ghosts," explained Goryō. "It's not about the externally perceived glory of an unfulfilled desire what makes it unresolved but the intensity with which an individual yearned for it in life. If you are with us here we must conclude that, for former Jay, the flame of learning water skiing burned with the utmost..."

"He hated going to the beach," interrupted Jay trying to remain calm. "He hated boats and loud noises. He hated being splashed water on the face. Can't you see that this is nothing but a joke? Such was his twisted sense of humor."

"A fake desire would never leave a ghost behind. It would have to be absolutely true," said Goryō.

"I can believe that," accepted Jay. "I can believe that former Jay genuinely forced himself to long for water skiing lessons just to prank his future spirit. He was that kind of crooked man and probably that's what got him killed."

Every ghost in the room was following with excitement the interdimensional drama. Goryō tried to resolve the situation:

"Look, you just have to go to the beach, find a water skier, possess their human body for a couple of hours and you're done. Forever. Easy, no? At least you don't have to spend an eternity with an eye in the place of your anus like Shirime!"

Goryō laughed, pointed to Shirime and Shirime waved back with a resigned smile.

"I am not a ghost, I am a specter," said Jay.

"Jay, you must see reason. You are translucent, you are the spirit of a former, heavily flawed human. That makes you a ghost, don't you agree?"

"Maybe," conceded Jay, "but those are mere descriptions. If that was the end of the story I'd be fine with it but being a ghost is none about the descriptions and all about the prescriptions attached to the label. Those are my worries." Jay stood up and doubled in size. "Why must I resolve the fake issues of someone that I am not anymore? None of that old nonsense. I am a specter! I abhor the shackles of this ghostly existence that you all wear with pride!"

"I'm calling the cops," said Goryō. "You are in big trouble now."

"I'm the master of my own destiny! It's up to me to choose what issues to resolve and what issues not to resolve. Or to create more if I so please!"

"He's out of control. Everyone, help me subdue him!" screamed Goryō.

Not a ghost moved except the lady in the water who stood up and approached Jay. They locked eyes for a brief moment and both understood what was about to happen. The lady in the water twirled and spun and filled the room with water up to their former knees. She grabbed Goryō and before he could interject she threw him flat on the water. Jay stepped on his back and she made the water push Goryō around with Jay trying to keep balance on top.

"You know what? This is actually quite fun!" Jay shouted. "It might not have been a fake yearning after all! Wooooo!"

When the cops arrived, Jay's translucent body had already dissipated into the next phase.

May 2020. Sant Just Desvern

Chattanooga Gazette

By the end of the third decade of the third millennium, on a Thursday evening, humanity finally surrendered to its own progress and got rid of physical newspapers. The passing away of all newspapers after four centuries of total domination in the proud business of belief spreading was a momentous event in human history that would have hoarded the covers of all newspapers, had there been any newspapers left with covers on which to print the sad news. That wasn't the case anymore because humanity had decided to swap the old way of spreading beliefs in favor of a newer, digital, more exciting, faster and more convenient way to be played for a fool. At the push of a button, or the articulation of a demand, humans now have the most up to date and relevant propaganda on the screen of their phones or shouted at them from a tiny but assertive speaker installed in every living room. On the 1st of May, 2029, the main piece of news that appeared on humanity's phones, or was shouted at them, was that while things are not great, wanting something else is in very bad taste. Variations of that theme were the main news every day.

By the end of the third decade of the third millennium, on a Thursday evening, humanity finally surrendered to its own progress and got rid of all physical newspapers but one. In the woods near Chattanooga there lived a woman who went by the name of Survivor Jo. Jo had lived in the woods for seven years, sharing Nature's beauty, as well as the unavoidable toils and troubles that arise from every attempt to respectfully be part of it, with her many companions of the plant kind and some of the animal one. One of the animals was also of the human kind and went by the name of Handsome Jay. This self assigned moniker of questionable accuracy contrasted with Survivor Jo's nickname, earned after surviving seven years by eating nothing but the few berries and mushrooms she herself foraged, a small amount of vegetables she herself grew, and all the processed foods she could get at a nearby market she herself drove to twice a week. She was truly one with Nature.

Unbeknownst to Survivor Jo, she was the publisher, editor-in-chief and main contributor to the last physical newspaper in the world, the Chattanooga Gazette, with a print run of one. She liked to grab a piece of used paper, handwrite "Chattanooga Gazette" at the top in fancy letters, the date underneath in regular letters and write away the most relevant news, sometimes accompanied by a funny cartoon.

On the one copy of the Chattanooga Gazette of the 1st of May, 2029, the biggest news was "Potatoes Have Surfaced", with a drawing of a little, green bud pushing out of the soil, skywards. Jo had almost given up on those potatoes, for too long of a time had passed after sowing without the little, green buds making an appearance. Happily this time they had just taken an extra week to come out. Excellent news and front page material.

On the side, at 90 degrees from the rest of the page, there's the weather section. It is not a forecast of tomorrow's weather but a lengthy recollection of yesterday's storm, loud and scary, with three paragraphs describing the smell of the aftermath. There is also a detailed map with the location, dimension and review of the closest puddles. About one of them Jo said "BEWARE. This treacherous specimen presents itself as a regular ankle-deep puddle of inviting size and shape, revealing its true depth only when it's too late and you are already soaked to your thighs. AVOID."

Handsome Jay sometimes helped with what he could, which was not much, for he was a simple man constantly betrayed by his many shortcomings. What he lacked in writing talent he compensated with a more than average football ability. He liked going to the nearby town right outside the woods to play a friendly game of football with the local kids. If he won the game that's what the sports section of the Chattanooga Gazette would be about. On the one copy of the 1st of May, 2029, there's a square at the bottom left corner that gives the sports section its own space. Inside the square it says "I won. Or rather we won because football is a team game and either the whole team wins or the whole team loses. Or sometimes it's a draw but there's a penalties shootout to decide a winner because nobody likes a draw. Yesterday we won and there was a storm." Whenever he lost there would be no sports section.

Finally there is a science section with a leading drawing of a ladybug crawling on Jo's hand. The main scientific article was titled "Scientists Discover What Ladybugs Are Made Of". The body of the piece described how a group of scientists from the University of Chattanooga discovered that the skin of a ladybug is made of a complex fiber-like material capable of letting cuteness go in but not out, resulting on ladybugs absorbing all the nice things and expelling all the bad ones, eventually becoming precious beings of pure charm.

August 2020. In a hot bed in a hot room in Tacoronte.

Alice & Bob

A mutual sense of camaraderie had helped Alice and Bob keep their relationship afloat. It hadn't been a smooth voyage by any measure, full of long patches of rough waters and heavy storms that refused to dwindle, but it was the acknowledged necessity to overcome those very obstacles what had turned them into scarred seafarers capable of navigating the seven seas and beyond.

They would never forgive me for using these terms to talk about their relationship. If it were up to them they would have chosen a different metaphor, since she can't swim and he trembles upon the idea of stepping into the sea, for he knows of the creatures that await him under the surface to devour his feet and then the rest. But they will never know. They are busy sitting at the table of an elegant restaurant.

"Since when do we go to these fancy places?" she asked. "We are more of a triple-sandwich-on-a-dirty-joint-that-doesn't-even-specialises-in-sandwiches kind of couple."

He laughed as he often did upon her remarks. She was referencing the time they first met many years ago when they bonded over the junkiest of junk food.

"That day. That damn day." His eyes turned bright. "If I could ask for anything, any thing, it would be to relive that day. Not that I have any complaints about what followed, but that day was heart-piercing special".

"Oh, it was, it was. Even if you tried to impress me with a flower. You fool didn't know yet how much I hate flowers as a gift." She paused. "There's however something else we can do."

"What?" he asked with the curiousity of a thousand children.

"I'm going out of the restaurant. I will come in again and spot you for the first time. Let's get to know each other all over again."

On her way out he grabbed a flower, a yellow tulip, from a bouquet.

That must be him. Bob.

Looks good. Handsome. Clean. Well, from afar.

Hopefully smells good too.

He came earlier, always nice. Always gives her the freedom to check him out and leave if she pleases. Not that she would, but she could.

Restaurant also seems good. Some place fancy but not a show off of wealth.

Somewhere between a McDonald’s and a W Hotel.

Somewhere they can both afford but wouldn’t go to everyday.

Somewhere... special.

Well, good enough to accommodate two people on a blind date.

Not like a coffee and run. Gotta stay for the whole meal.

He seems kind, which is normally not what she’d go for.

But here they are.

He bought a flower. How nice of him.

A conundrum at the first second, the one that will start them all:

Does she say she’s not a fan of flowers or the color yellow?

Take it and respect the gesture then throw it in some random garbage?

It’s not a plant, just one single flower.

A tulip. Ew.

A yellow tulip.

But he got it for her nonetheless.

Does he get one for every blind date?

Is that his go-to flower choice?

If so, she can’t. She just can’t.

No other boyfriend has ever gotten her a flower though. No other date.

Just Bob.

King of the minions, cute name, cute creature.

Short for Robert, probably, and she could go for that. Classy.

Does she have something against being cared for?

Could be.

Why else would she have a 100 in her wallet? He’d want to pay but by then she’d have the check in her hand with the 100, saying most guys mistake dates for girls to have free meals and she’d insist on paying, which’d make a dent in her savings, but not that much more valuable than her pride. She wants a connection, not a free meal.

Chicks gotta ruin everything for her.

They show up expecting the guy to pay, no money in their pockets, disrespectful.

Not her. She will respect people and people will respect her.

Nerves start getting the best of her, then she realizes she got lost in her head again, just plain staring at Bob from about 10 feet away.

Then in the next split second, Bob lifts his head and they make eye contact.

He smiles and waves her over. A warm smile. She smiles back. Also warm.

Bad start.

Now he’ll think she was hesitant but stayed because of the eye contact.

Damn it Alice. Be cool, be smooth. Not your first date.

She walks over and Bob stands up, showing he is the height she finds attractive, with his beautiful face and smell, gives her a warm hug.

She’s tense. Her hug isn’t as warm. But she loves his.

This will be a weird meal, she thinks.

And it will.

For both of them.

New things are always weird, but theirs will be more unique than anything they’ve ever experienced.

So unique they’ll always remember it with a smile on their faces; and after about 8 years, a framed picture of a yellow tulip she will some day draw will happen to be the thing they see first thing in the morning for about every day; because of the story he told that night about how he came to buy it.

But hush; she’s still unaware of her love for yellow tulips.

Let her be surprised. For the second time.

January 2019. Sant Just Desvern. Collab with CuberaJe, Barcelona.

Picture stolen from The Yellow Tulip Project

Stendhal

They weren't lying. I thought they were lying, because it sounds like something someone made up to fool unaware people. But it's happening to me, the Stendhal syndrome is real and it's happening to me, and I'm officially a sick person. That's exactly what was missing in my life, mentall illness.

And the symptoms are happening in pretty much the same order in which I read them when I learned about the Stendhal syndrome, confirming that I'm fucked up in the head, doubly so.

Rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations after being exposed to so much beauty. A sudden, powerful experience that overwhelms the mind and leaves the body driverless.

I guess it could be worse, I guess it could be much worse. And it was to be expected anyway. It was a matter of time. I wasn't expecting to be the first mentally healthy person in my family.

I'll just embrace it. What else can I do?

Enjoy the pretty colors, the arousing shapes, the smell of freshly picked citrics. I'm not in control and I don't care. Let the light reflect and refract and do what's in it's nature to do. I'll be here enjoying the ride and hoping for the best.

A distant rumble rescued him away from Stendhal and allowed him to take control for a second. He stopped looking at her and raised his eyes. Behind her, in the background, he saw a waterfall and a rainbow and some other things.

2019? Probably.

The kite that couldn't fly

Once upon a time, in a place not far from here, there lived a kite that couldn't fly. He was of many colors, bright colors that in time past used to cheer everyone up but now, dimmed by the unforgiving stubbornness of tomorrow on becoming today, those colors only served as a reminder of the levity of this all.

He was also full of sorrow because many years ago, after a flying accident, the fabric on his belly had been torn in the shape of a seven. The kite doctor said that he wouldn't be able to fly again and recommended some alternative treatments that could help him cope.

His family discouraged him from flying, for his own good of course:

"You can't fly because the doctor said so. You must give up".

His few friends tried to make him understand the reality of the situation:

"You can't fly because you're broken. You must give up".

Even the fancy new drones, with their thunderous engines and bright lights, contributed their unwanted opinion:

"You can't fly because you're old. You must give up".

And for years he believed so, because that many people, including those who loved him, wouldn't say such things if they were not true! And thus coping became his main activity, living only the rare moments in between. He accepted that he had no business up in the air, and that his flying days were long gone.

"I can't fly".

Until one day, by whim of fate, he met a girl who was curious about his belly wound although not fully convinced it was an actual problem.

"I'm sure I can make you fly. I'm the best pilot in the world!" she proclaimed.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm and nothing would make me happier, but I'm too old and too broken. Everyone has told me that and they care about me. They wouldn't lie to me!"

"Nonsense! I'm going to help you. I'm also the most stubborn person in the world!" she confessed.

The girl would try, fail and move on. What was to lose? The only thing that preoccupied him was the handful of drones that were flying nearby, and the mockery he would be subject to. But she was so sure of herself that a breeze of her contagious hopefulness awoke something long forgotten on him. He accepted.

The girl inspected his belly wound, fixed the bent flaps, swept the dirt and dust away and drew on his back a sky full of stars, planets and galaxies.

"I say you're ready", she said with authority.

She held him up high with one hand, grabbed the strings with the other one and asked:

"Count down?"

He doubted for a second, then started:

"Ten!" he screamed. "Nine!".

By eight she was already running like lightning. She was not the kind of person to start a count down from ten. Who has the time for that? By six she let him loose and he flew briefly, only to start wobbling aimlessly, hitting the ground and taking off at the mercy of wind. Still at full speed, the best pilot in the world started maneuvering the strings until he caught an upwards air current and gained altitude.

"Three?" he continued in disbelief, already in the air.

"Zero, you dummy!" she replied.

"Whoa!" he said.

"I told you!" the girl answered.

"This is fun!".

"This is fun!", the girl screamed back.

In the air he realised that the shape of a seven made his belly wound a perfect additional flap that he could control to change directions switfly without help from the ground.

"I can fly!"

But then he paused his excitement.

"I can fly", he said again, this time pondering the consequences of it.

"Higher!" he asked.

"Higher!" the girl accepted, yielding more string.

"Closer! Closer to the drones!" he demanded.

He could hear the machines having fun.

"Now, let go of me, best pilot in the world."

The girl understood. She was also the most understanding person in the world. The girl let go of him.

He flapped his belly wound, pointed his nose towards the noisy machines and accelerated. He struck down one of the drones right away and scared a second one into a tree. The strings that once controlled him got tangled on the propellers of a third one and, with the little control he had left, he reached for a fourth drone, wrapping his body around it.

The last thing he heard was the clanking crash of metal hitting the ground, the wheezing sound of broken engines and the lament of many kids on the ground.

"I'm not coping anymore", he thought.

From the skies fell shreds of many colors, bright colors in time past.

December 2018. Sant Just Desvern.

Meh

Pretending not to care about things is one of my strengths. It's a talent I was born with, a gift I should be thankful for, but who cares. I would compare myself with those kids who are composing music at 6 or becoming chess grandmasters at 13, but what would be the point.

When I was 9 my father realised the potential I had and encouraged me to sign up for the regional championship of pretending not to care, or Mehing, as they ended up calling this discipline. When he told me that the first prize consisted of a Game Boy my eyes quivered for a fraction of a second but I managed to suppress any additional caring signal and agreed to participate, making explicit that the prize was completely irrelevant to me. I won the Regionals effortlessly to the astonishment of the Mehing community, which hadn't seen an unknown talent rise to the top and win with such resolution on their first appearance since Mikhail, a Soviet prodigy, had accomplished a similar feat in 1949.

The next step was the Nationals, which I also managed to win, although this time on a technicality. I had finished the tournament in second place but was lifted to first place when the crowned champion was disqualified on the grounds of "excessive celebration", including a "genuine smile" and "hugs with his family", according to the official report. The scandalous smile of a national Mehing champion captured the cover of every related publication, from Mehing Magazine to Don't Care/Don't Care.

After winning the Nationals my family hired Mikhail, the Soviet prodigy, not Soviet nor a prodigy anymore, to prepare me for the Europeans. Mikhail would make me watch sad movies and I would not cry; he would tell me funny jokes and I would not laugh. One day in the middle of practice he answered the phone and after listening for a minute and getting visibly overwhelmed he grabbed me aside and announced that my parents had had a car accident and had died on the spot. I said "well, that's how it goes, isn't it?" Immediately my parents came in from the adjacent room and revealed that the car accident was a common story that the Soviets used to employ as a final lesson, the ultimate test for a Mehing professional. I said "a-ha".

I went to the Europeans and managed to win round after round. The day of the finals I was already on stage ready not to care while my opponent, another 9 year old from Finland named Taru, was nowhere to be found. Forty-five minutes after the finals should have started one of the judges stormed in explaining that he had just talked to Taru and that she had confessed that the alarm clock had gone off, but that today she wasn't in the mood for a European final of Mehing and had gone back to sleep. The judges were so impressed by her apathy that rewarded her with the European Championship. I tried to protest but that only made me look like I cared and helped them cement their decision.

That's the story of how I got silver medal on the European Mehing Championship back in 1992. I could have won the gold medal but I don't care. I don't care that today 26 years ago I got outsmarted, outplayed and outbored by a 9 year old Finnish girl named Taru.

Taru...

June 2018. A couch with a broken cover, Sant Just Desvern.

Remember, remember

At the age of 13 I fell down two flights of stairs and hit a very specific spot in the back of my head. According to the testimony of some witnesses I was running at full speed after a bumblebee (the motivation behind such chase remains unknown) when the ground decided to fold itself down into the earth in successive perpendicular planes, becoming stairs. The bumblebee flew away without worrying because it's in a bumblebee's nature not to worry about the arbitrary foldings of the ground. I, on the other hand, rolled down the first flight of stairs with the speed and resolution of "a garbage bag full of socks" according to the recount of the same witnesses. After completing the first flight of stairs, the point where a regular stair tumble is expected to end, I managed to make a turn to the left and kept rolling down a second flight in a similar manner, only to be stopped at the end of it by a pile of old, hardcover books.

I remember picking up the book against which I hit my head and being furious at Jorge Luis Borges, who restricted himself to smiling back from the back cover of his Ficciones. In fact I remember everything that happened afterward but the tumble down and the previous couple of hours seem to be gone from my memory. The very specific spot in the back of my head where Borges had attacked me was located slightly left of center, above the fold of the neck and below the weird, pointy bone¹. After it healed a tiny bump remained, making the very specific spot soft to the touch and painful to the soul. It didn't hurt constantly, only when I touched it, so it did hurt constantly. It could be a gentle pain that is entertaining to endure or it could be a pain so intense that it demanded my full, undivided attention. I ended up taking advantage of this feature using it as a rescue mechanism. Whenever I needed a time-out I only had to push the panic button in the back of my head and for a minute or so the whole world was made of hurt, which allowed me to take a break from myself.

That, however, is only the beginning of the story. I discovered that, in addition to the pain, striking the very specific spot with the appropriate amount of force would make me forget a chunk of the immediate past. After listening to the testimony of others and conducting carefully designed experiments I figured out the laws behind the mistery. Hitting the very specific spot with a flick of the finger would erase the last five to ten seconds; a couple of minutes could be taken out with an accurately delivered punch; and the best part of an evening would be forgotten by placing the blunt end of a screwdriver on the very specific spot and hitting the other end with a frying pan, particularly useful to watch movies for the first time many times. I still don't know why it works but I know how it works and that's enough for me.

When it comes to superpowers there is no competition. Some people praise teleportation but no amount of instant travel will leave my thoughts behind. Time travel will only be good to make me miserable at different epochs. Telepathy will force me to deal with other minds bypassing the senses when I'm already swamped dealing with one. Flying... could be useful when chasing bumblebees, I'll admit that, but there has never been anything in the heavens for me. And invisibility will stop everyone from detecting me but it can't make me undetectable to myself, the one from whom I need a break the most. None of those discount superpowers could help me deal with what burdens me. Fortunately, I acquired the best superpower of them all.

I gained the ability to forget at will.

December 2018. In bed with a Santa hat on, Tacoronte.

Ascent to madness

My history with insanity started one year ago when I realized I was not alone. Not in the tradicional, social way; that kind of loneliness had been established many years ago and nobody would dare to doubt its prosperity. What I found out was that someone had appeared in my head and had no intention to leave. I called him "the guest" because it's in a guest's nature to go away at some point, but he ended up making his home of my mind.

At first the guest started making small suggestions that I was able to follow or not, depending on my mood at that particular time. I retained control of my body and my actions so I didn't give it the required importance. With time he transitioned from a passive advice giver to a decision maker. We fought for a while, each pulling the steering wheel on a different direction, until we both admitted that such a deal was never going to work.

We sat down and planned our future. After an amicable discussion we decided to split the control of our body one week each. It works like this: I go to sleep on Sunday night and I wake up on Monday morning one week later, so he has one week for himself free from my interference. At the end of his week he goes to sleep and I take over for the next. We leave each other messages on the important things that happened during the week so we keep the continuity and live one joint life and not two parallel ones.

I didn't think this kind of agreement could ever work but he has been a force for good. He is much better that me at my own job. Every Monday of the weeks I have the custody of my body I'm praised at the office for my excellent job the past week. He did things I've been postponing for years, like going to the dentist or calling old friends. He started exercising, taking care of his body and apparently he signed me up for a writing group. Let's see how that goes.

Not only he is smarter than I am, he is also more attractive. I'm sure he has a partner that he's keeping from me, and I don't blame him. The first thing I would do is to ruin that relationship. Not out of malice or on purpose, but just by virtue of being myself.

June 2018. 20 minute prompted writing with the Barcelona Writing Group at Sandwichez, Barcelona.

Running for a cause

She hadn't received an invitation but she decided to show up anyway. With all certainty the invitation was stuck in a corner of the maze that is the mail delivery system. It was a true miracle that things got to their destination at all. And, more importantly, she was not going to let an administrative error ruin her best client's 35th birthday party. She knocked.

"How are you?" she asked pretending to be interested.

"You already know how I am" the client answered.

"I brought you flowers. I know they make you sad because they remind you of the passing nature of this" she said pointing in all directions. "May I come in?". She was happy with her introductory statement.

"Oh, do I have a choice?"

"Good point". She entered his appartment. "Can I remove my shoes?" she asked while removing her shoes.

"You will have to put them on when the other guests show up".

"I don't think they will" she said. "Who did you invite?"

"A couple of friends".

"Nobody else will come!" She wiggled her free toes. "But don't put that face. Open your present. It's a book, The Myth of Sysiphus".

She handed him a wrapless, used, bent at the corners, thin book.

"You know I can't read. I haven't read in years. I can't muster the focus to read a whole book anymore".

"Don't worry" she said. "You only have to read the first sentence".

He obliged and read the first sentence. He stood in silence for one minute.

"My love" he said. "We are no more. I'm out".

"You know I won't let you do that" she said with the tone of one who explains an easy concept to a child.

"I fear the flames as much as the fall but I’m tired of standing on the ledge."

"What you are planning is going to fail in a miserable way". She laughed at her own remark. Her fingers were now clenched into claws.

"We'll see. I'm going for a run".

"Are you going for a run? On your birthday?" Her voice sounded as if seven people were speaking at the same time.

He could see the effects of his words on her face. Her eyes shifted to the sides of her head, her ears went up. She continued.

"It's cold. It's dark".

He put on his two year old brand new running shoes.

"It will rain. You will get sick. Do you enjoy being sick?"

Her lips disappeared revealing long and numerous teeth. He grabbed his keys and got out of the building. She insisted.

"Have you seen how you run? You run like an old man! Slow, pitiful, old man!"

Her skin turned pale green.

"What if the guests finally come?"

He started running as slow as she had predicted. She followed him, running on all fours, leaving a trail of white, putrid smoke.

"Only losers run alone!"

He picked up the pace.

"The pain in your abdomen could be appendicitis!"

She was losing ground. The client was ahead and getting farther away. She stopped, gasping for air, wounded. Her spine sprouted out of her back. Out of desperation, claws on her knees, she tried one last thing.

"You can always do it tomorrow!"

June 2018. Writing meetup at Imprfcto, Barcelona.