OK, first of all, let me put this clear: I'm totally drunk. Absolutely drunk. So this means that I anything I feel now, will be totally amplified. That's what it's like when you're drunk and come back home alone: you imagine. So I tell you: I'm drunk and tomorrow I won't necessarily sign for what I write now. But I want to write.
The first half of the night was what you call a txellish time. I told Txell I was going to write on my blog that Meritxell is patron saint of Andorra, the only country in the world where Catalan is an official language, and here you have me, keeping my promise. Unfortunately, Txell (cold skin and the green eyes of a river of tears of happiness and sorrow) had to leave very early, and so the first half of the night was over.
The second half came by. I was lost, and I was drunk. I turned around Bublic, leaving Marc and Ingrid behind, and suddenly I found myself in front of Marc again. There was something weird: I turned around the place, but I sort of didn't turn around completely, and yet there was Marc and Ingrid again. How was this possible? If they were at one side of Bublic, they couldn't be at the other side: and still, they were there. This simple fact, and yet confusing, sort of blurred the rest of the night. I still don't know how the hell they were there, but they were.
We drank a little bit more, and I sort of developpped a theory of eggs with Ingrid. You know, eggs, you make omelettes with them, but they are also eggs, a fundamental part of our bodies. Jaques kept asking me for brilliant phrases, but I couldn't give him any.
And the night went on as only night knows how to go on, and I found myself at 5 in the morning in the street, thinking of Manu Chao and the eyes and the skin that I lost somewhere in my life. Where are those eyes? Where's that skin of silk that invites my hands to caress it with the sweetest of movements? It was a river of tears again. It was the river of my life again, with no particular beggining and no particular end.
So I took a taxi, and very fast I was home. Home, where I'm typing this now, alone again, as usual. Alone in the dark of a dim light that lights the cigarretes I smoke, as I write and think of you. Who are you? I don't know, and I feel uncomfortable when I realise I don't know who you are.
Solo voy con mi pena, sola va mi condena, correr es mi destino, para burlar la ley. Perdido en el corazón, de la grande Babylon, me dicen el clandestino... soy una raya en el mar, ... mi vida va prohibida, dice la autoridad... I go alone with my sorrow, alone goes my sentence, running is my fate, to avoid the law. Lost in the heart of the big Babylon, they call me the clandestine... I go alone with my sorrow... Welcome to Tijuana...
¿Dónde están tus ojos, amor? ¿Por qué ya no me miran como antes, por qué ya no los veo igual? Sabes bien que te quise como nunca he querido, sabes que te quiero aún, aunque ya no te quiera. ¿Qué pasó? Quizás ya lo sabía desde el principio. Cuando ví tu piel de amor, tus ojos achinados mostrándome un mundo, tu sexo iluminando el camino de mis manos humildes. ¿Recuerdas? Nos fundimos en la miseria del amor sin sentido, pero con sentimiento.
La noche es fría y escribo. Tú tiemblas. Las hojas tiemblan. Mi alma tiembla junto a la tuya, tan lejana. Las velas del alma ya no arden, y sin embargo ardo por tenerte a mi lado. Todo son palabras, palabras sin sentido que salen del teclado de mis ojos ciegos de alcohol y deseo. Palabras, palabras, palabras que no debería pronunciar y sin embargo pronuncio, para que las leas y me muestres el camino equívoco, el camino que nunca debí caminar.
No sé qué dije en el párrafo anterior, ni en el primero, pero no me importa. Tan sólo quiero seguir escribiendo, solo, absurdo, hiriente, violento como el viento de la mañana que me lleva hasta tu abrazo cálido y lejano a un tiempo. Tu abrazo, dame sólo tu abrazo otra vez, y sabré olvidarte para siempre. Y empezar de nuevo.