The darkness of the night makes the rain that continually falls on the asphalt looks like oil.
I don’t have the feeling that this will clean the contaminated atmosphere which feeds my lungs, rather the opposite. Have to look a couple of times to make sure it’s not the rain which stains in black the streets I walk. Is not that I am not used to the dark (quite opposite, always I moved between lights and shadows), just today I am more aware of everything around me, everything that lives in this city that someone would call it a garbage dump. I call it Home.
I try to make memory where I have been and what I’ve done, but my memories are vague, as fuzzy as the panoramic view that is drawn to me behind the veil of this incessant rain. Nothing, nothing. Just a gap separating me from another part of me that I have tried to control with no success. Who cares. Wherever I go all these conjectures and soluble memories will not serve a damn thing. There is only one thing that I have clear: I’m back and this time it is to stay.
The flickering light of lanterns lets me dodge a couple who are given expedited love looking for a cover behind a black corner, and without any protection, they take fast love. I distinguish the sighs of it between the patter of rain. He is a quiet, precise, a machine of jostling outside everything not to please his dick. I suppose that, under the circumstances, it is right.
I left behind the night lovers and enter in the alley that leads to that underground ladder that goes straight into hell itself. The standing sidewalk projects my silhouette that is extended to the first rungs.It is an invitation, and is impolite to reject it.
As I descend, the atmosphere becomes more loaded. Clouds of nicotine are mixed with moisture from the storm, causing that if any part of my clothes were without sticking to my body, the problem stayed already determined. It is suffocating. It smells of tobacco, mildew, sweat and saliva. Try to ignore the rest of nuances or my imagination will play me a trick. I don’t want to end up vomiting ahead of time.
Down, black walls as coal welcomes me with thunderous music, piercing my eardrums. The confusing melody gets to the brain, but not catalogued. Metal? Rock? Electronics? I guess it depends on who listen to it. Never liked labels, I prefer that each be defined by itself.
To my around, worn seats give refuge to a myriad of aberrant creatures that do not seem to recognize more reality which they draw themselves. A couple of guys who are preparing a shot as if they follow a ritual, three girls dressed in leather and studs, delights of a nerd with glasses, a group of seven who drink and smoke as if there were no tomorrow, raising their voices, one above the other. The neon lights seem tired of illuminating those scenes night after night. Threaten to withhold its low light for a moment to another. I pray to not be so.
I find in the background, lying in one of those filthy seats, my goal. He is the cause I’m here today, precisely, and not anywhere else. Don’t raise the view but he knows I’m here, betrayed by his mischievous smile.I give short steps, approaching him. I see empty bottles, cigarettes filters converted into small orange accordions, remains of tobacco, cigarette paper, several wraps, worn by the singing credit cards, boxes of scratched cds, bent and blackened spoons and syringes draining. A girl with makeup run lies in the lap of my friend. I doubt that it is alive or dead.
by Abel Murillo