Changes

Hey guys! No, Internet is not crazy. It’s me, Juande. It’s been a while.

I know I have been lost for quite a long time, I don’t usually use Facebook and don’t know the e-mail addresses of most of you in order to write from time to time, but I was just wondering what you might be doing and if you still were alive and kicking.

It seems the talkative Spaniard you knew has turned into quite the silent boy that doesn’t want to know anything about his old fellows.

Naaaah… me being a curious, talkative Spaniard hasn’t changed; it’s just that I am busier now. Changes are changes.

And speaking of changes… You know what? As I recline in the seat of the train to Granada I start reminiscing. I realize that it is so stupid how things have to change so drastically while others remain intact as time goes by.

Not so long ago, Granada was a place full of hippies playing guitars in the streets, of beer pong and quizzes in Poe, Hannigans and the such; it was a place full of Spaniards drinking in a huge, open place called “Botellón” or wasting 20 euros in Pub 69’s shots for a hell of a night, full of Kapital craziness, García Lorca Park and Paseo de los Tristes strolls, Mirador de San Nicolás and Sacromonte nice sunsets, Morocco tea and friends… lots and lots of friends.

There are now laws in Granada that ban playing music and singing in the streets, eating in the streets, carrying alcohol, etc. People here have turned selfish and materialistic, much more than they used to be, everything is much more expensive now (Kapital is now 10 Euros to get in, double what it was before), the botellón mob has lost its soul and are now just a bunch of heavydrinkers who make you feel more comfortable organizing parties at home. And, no, it is not just that I am growing up… I don’t think that thing applies to me.

I once believed in Granada’s godly religion, in making every single thing me and my people did special, in sharing moments, only good moments, with everyone, keeping those bad for the really close and insisting friends. I once believed in the good nature of going tapas, partying until dawn and meeting people, much more people than that.

Some things change and some don’t. I don’t think you really understand how sadly… but Granada is one that has.

Not so long ago I was a guy obsessed with the idea of going to China to study Chinese and thus finishing my career to look for the best place to start a nice and comfortable life doing what I wanted to do. I have risked a lot in this, given the kind of education I received and the idea of “united family” my family always had. I have risked friends, girlfriends, job opportunities, travelling opportunities and, well, just all the opportunities to do many things else that I haven’t just for the sole reason of going there and learn the language and the culture.

I should have gone to China two years ago and, firstly, bureaucracy issues and, lately, a certain important death inside my family had me in the very first place where I started… always, just here. And I have so many times toyed with the possibility of just surrender and start working in whatever makes me feel right, here in Spain, that I laugh at the thought of having sacrificed all those opportunities for nothing, just for a mere case of bad luck. Even now I am hesitating quite a lot. But I think that just the way I sacrificed those things, the way I always mourned those things I lost and the way I am miraculously still standing up and willing to sacrifice even more things shoots inside my head with the words “Naaaah… not now, it’s too late”. The brainprints all those people and experiences I lost left in me don’t deserve a failure.

I once was stubborn enough to see things going away from my hands just for the uncertainty of a desired dream.

Some things change and some don’t. It seems this one hasn’t… yet.

Not so long ago, I told a person somehow special to me that I was going to tell everything I had just achieved so far to fuck the hell off. I preferred to do that instead of seeing how all the people I considered important ended up moving to a different country and a different life in which communication with me and some other friends was only possible once a month and, on top of that, often reluctantly; before everything I once had and was free to enjoy was suddenly crumbling and turning into dust in the palm of my hand, not knowing what to do to avoid it nor being able to ponder which one of those things was of top importance to me… not even feeling like wasting my life waiting and not doing what I should.

I did it… well, most of it… and I am now happy to everything I have now achieved and take the place of old friends, personal features of my personality and parts of my life that once were called “myself”. However, I miss those things so much, so so very much it is very painful to think about it and to think about how fucked up it is to live experiences and people to which you eventually have to say goodbye in order to move on.

I once was very passionate and caring for the people I loved, but also aware of when I had to let those things freely go, never to forget about them and about the little piece of life we shared.

Some things change and some don’t. It seems that is one that hasn’t.

Not so long ago, I loved. It seems quite strange given how cold I have always been in that very matter, but I have come to realize I am one of those stupid guys who really truly love someone when we have lost her. And I did, and I am such a pussy I have never told her.

And maybe, just perhaps, this letter is also a letter to that someone I always treated with such a cold distance and silence I ended up losing all by my stupid self. I finally grew up tired of desperately looking for stupid things that don’t really exist, that don’t really make a difference and that are really not that important in the face of someone who was offering me a (at that time, believing not enough) everything she had. Yeah, I am happy to be free of that now, and I enjoy feeling much more positive about the people surrounding me.

I once was a stupid, greedy bastard.

Some things change and some don’t. I am glad to have the feeling that this is one I have learned from and has now changed.

And it burns my fingers as I write about all this and I think it is not called pain, hate nor any stupid, dorky and emo thing. I think it is called rage, rage and bliss. Rage to live the best I can, to avoid making the same old mistakes of the past now that I am prepared, to value true friendship for its true value, rage to lose because sometimes I win, bliss to win because losing must be a long-term winning… and, in the long-term, I feel I won.

I once was a ruckus, a talkative Spaniard, a party hunter, a player, a Chinese learner, a smart-ass, a cock-top, a geeky dancer, a dork, a teacher, a friend, a non-received email, a non-received call, a guitar player, a piano player, a basketball player, a football hooligan, a caballero, a passionate and caring boyfriend, a lame retard, a pain in the ass, a non-fulfilled promise, a good job done, an eating monster, a photographer, a love counsellor, a funding institution, a tour guide, a stupid, greedy bastard…

Now that I sit back in the chair of this train and start reminiscing, I realize…

Some things changed because they had to, because I was not able to avoid it… and some didn’t because, finally, I was able to… well…

to change.

Loco perdido

Manuel cogió su móvil y se recostó en la cama, a punto de irse a dormir. Tenía un mensaje de Ivonne:

- A veces siento que este mundo está loco perdido. Son esas veces que me encantaría ir a recogerte y que nos fuéramos a algún lugar a tener al menos 10 minutos de jodida realidad, significado, autenticidad o como quieras llamarlo.

Manuel pensó para sí: “¡Qué razón tienes!”

--- Evangelio según tu puta madre

Más palabras de las escritas

Ivonne leyó del libro con velocidad y avidez, pasando de frase en frase y sin dejar atrás ni un ápice de la esencia de la mano de Manuel en cada palabra. Estaba aburrida. Sí, es cierto que reconocía un sutil recurso estilístico aquí y allá, y un guiño del escritor en algún que otro rincón del texto, pero la cháchara propagandística acerca de por qué nacemos carecía de esa magia tan especial que su profesor imprimía en sus clases.

- ¡Qué decepción! –pensó. Ivonne odiaba los libros que se enrollaban mucho sin decir prácticamente nada, aquellos que aburrían en sus primeras hojas. Los libros, según ella, debían ser lo suficientemente buenos como para enganchar desde la primera palabra.

Pero de repente, un escalofrío recorrió su cuerpo, como si toda la lectura de las primeras veinticuatro páginas hubiese llevado un disfraz de propaganda política para adolescentes durante todo el tiempo que llevaba leyendo.

- Hacerse mayor –leyó en voz alta y con una escueta voz ronca- es, como podemos comprobar, el acto de desinvertir el tiempo que antes utilizábamos en planear un mundo mejor para invertirlo en estar de pie en interminables colas a la espera de que algo nos saque de ese mismo mundo que no hemos podido cambiar.

Y sintió como un tren le atropellaba el corazón. Su profesor, sin ella darse cuenta, se había reído de su arrogancia. Parecía como si las primeras 24 páginas no hubieran sido más que un camino hasta esa conclusión tan lapidaria. Esa frase no sólo iluminó a Ivonne, decía muchísimas cosas más de las que había escritas, una frase que le mostraba la tristeza de hacerse mayores pero también la paciencia que se adquiría en el camino y de la cual, como lo había demostrado el libro, ella carecía. La frase hablaba de mirarse a uno mismo en el espejo del alma y de forma consciente comprobar la irresponsabilidad de no traer ese mundo fantástico en todas las acepciones de la palabra a la realidad, era un mensaje para no rendirse nunca.

- Nunca más- Y cerrando la tapa marrón del libro, bajó la escaleras de su casa y, cogiendo las llaves del armario pequeño del pasillo, salió a la calle.

- ¡Mamá, voy a casa de Manuel! ¡Luego vengo!

--- Evangelio según tu puta madre

Yuuga (momento crítico)

Yuuga, viendo lo tarde que se le había hecho, decidió pasar parte de la noche en un refugio que se había ido construyendo en una grieta del gran árbol durante las anteriores ocasiones en que Zlorsh le había mandado allí. Se conocía ligeramente la zona, así que oteó, exploró y, cerciorándose de que el posible peligro estaba bajo control, se adentró en la grieta del árbol con su caballo y se ocultó entre las sombras de la noche. Ni siquiera un murciélago podría verlo.

Pero no todo eran murciélagos.

Cuando se tumbó acurrucado cerca de su caballo, una melena blanca dejó de volar al viento y se detuvo cerca de allí.

Y Yuuga cerró los ojos,

y un puñal brilló con luz azul oscuro en la noche.

Y Yuuga recordó el fuego del monasterio,

y una mano gris acarició la rugosa piel de Ghazi.

Y Yuuga volvió a escuchar entre susurros “Lüar, Lüar, Lüar”.

Alguien le observaba...

Yuuga se durmió…

Y, mirándole, unos ojos rojos se rieron a carcajadas, en la noche.

Raúl (continuación)

Raúl no paraba de dar vueltas en su cuarto, tantas vueltas como vueltas le daba la cabeza sin terminar de creerse lo que había sucedido cerca de la parada de autobús.

“¡Qué carajo ha sido eso! Me refiero… ¡joder, estaba allí! Me tropecé con ella, me habló, me dijo “¿Te encuentras bien?” y con media sonrisa en la cara, ¡cruzó la esquina para desaparecer! O sea, Raúl, ¿qué coño te está pasando? Normalmente son sólo cosas que ves, ¿qué digo, que ves? Sólo son cosas que te imaginas, ¡y hoy te has chocado con ellas! O diría mejor, con ella. ¿Es que ella es real? ¿Esos ojos directos a mí… a mis propios secretos? Ese pelo rojo como unos labios rojos sangrando roja sangre. Ha tenido que ser real. ¡Esa chica ha tenido que ser la puta realidad!”.

“¿Quién es? Quiero saber quién es. Quiero saber porque día a día, nadie tiene ni puñetera idea de cómo soy ni de lo que pienso y esa chica me miraba como si escuchara dentro de mi puta cabeza”.

“¿Quién es la pelirroja?”.

Sin embargo, lo que Raúl ni siquiera se cuestionó, fue que también había visto al policía y a la mujer que perdió su amor. Ellos, sin embargo, simplemente se desvanecieron en su mente, los olvidó. Como si un ladrón de rojos cabellos y pelliza negra le hubiera robado la imaginación.

Muy a lo lejos, en la ciudad… en la cabeza misma de Raúl, unos tambores resonaron con grandeza mientras uno de sus sueños… quedaba prisionero de un vacío que comenzaba poco a poco a crecer.