Portrait #5

Portrait #5

Yesterday and today, you still want to realize that idea you've been thinking about for so long, and which keeps growing old inside you.
You think about time and it exhausts you.
Why are you filled with so much fickleness and inconsistency? You still ask yourself today.
You're filled with a soft rage. Gradually, you blush just to feel it. At midnight you'll be forty-seven. This morning you received a parcel: a small, carefully wrapped box that you get every Tuesday. You read your name and address carefully, it reassures you.
You walk with the box in your hands to your desk. You open a drawer and find an x-acto. You cut the tape off the box. Your hand reaches in and pulls out a bubble-wrapped mass. You unwrap it - it's a recorder.
You stand with your hair down. You tilt your head to one side, straighten it in a circular motion and then let it fall forward until you feel its weight. While your hand holds the object tightly, you retrace your steps, return to another room and place the recorder on the corner of a coffee table. The light in the room gradually turns gray, the light outside diffusing down to that fictitious straight line we call the horizon. Your gaze freezes on a shapeless patch of light on the ceiling, flickering and fading. Unable to utter a word, you yawn.
You'd like to make yourself some coffee, but that's wishful thinking. You pull up a chair and sit, staring at the dial screen. Your eyes stare at the numbers. It's now six o'clock, you press the play button on the recorder, eight seconds pass and it sizzles. Various scratching noises follow. You close your eyes and imagine your sender sitting with his back straight. You strain your ear to better distinguish the intermingling noises. Then you discern a passing car, his breathing, clothes rubbing, another passing car, footsteps moving away, something closing, footsteps approaching, more clothes rubbing, a long sigh, another passing car, a throaty noise and finally a voice.
But the sound of a hammer in the distance prompts you to interrupt the recording. You stand up and look outside. The light fades. Your window shivers. The wind is blowing. A thin smoke emerges from a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the neighbor's windowsill. You sit down and look at the table. You press your eyes with all your fingers, rubbing them. Your vision is blurred for a moment, but quickly comes back into focus. You wonder why there's so much dust on your table, thinking that when you sleep, the dust settles more. Sweet air enters the room. You search for something with your eyes, thinking of something else. You stroke your forehead with a yawn that's more prolonged than the first. You hear someone coming up the stairs, breathing hard. You look at the clock: it's nearly nine. A slight burning in your lower back makes you get up from your chair. You want to run, or at least send your feet for a walk. You often wish you could detach your head, legs and arms from your body, as you find it difficult to manage the whole thing.
Now you're bathed in darkness and let a small point of light guide you to turn on the lamp. Your burn has faded and you no longer need to go outside. You return to your chair and look at the recorder.
You search again with your eyes and this time you find what you were looking for. You stand up to pick it up, raise your arms, get it and sit back down. You try to find a good posture with the object in your hands. It's now ten past eight. You pick up the recorder, and this time you press the rec button. You hear a passing car, get up to close the window and curtains, and see another car driving by. You return to your seat, about six seconds have passed, straighten your back, let out a long breath followed by a throaty noise, and then devour the words with your eyes, reading in a jerky voice. When your voice weakens, you stop the recording.
A gentle reverie ensues. Quickly interrupted by the shadow of tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Wednesday, you'll prepare your parcel, carefully writing down your address.
Towards afternoon, you'll go to the post office, burning with the desire to write, but for today you'll devote yourself to the pleasure of reading.

— CUSICCOYLLOR ESPINOZA