SuperSonic

Like that day that I boarded the supersonic jet 623 towards the spirals of dust from a splintered star and ended up in a brown-thick-wooden colour grotto with magic mushrooms everywhere; the good thing is that there was beer flowing from the moss in walls that were painting rust of iron virgins with faded colours.

I was being watched by winged beings whose only true thing was their condition of ethereal flyers; their wings were made of ectoplasmic feathers and their figures were almost indecipherable, due to the escapable condition inherent in the fantastic or supernatural beings. The problem was that, for my eyes their subatomic particles moved too fast and in long distances, so that they can appear and disappear whenever they want to and in blurred spectrums. Hertz waves of continental proportions were filtering through the pores of the washed and humid walls. Surrealism created on the walls by random and time.

The inducement was to feel the air breaking, literally slip through the aerial pores, between those plaits that exist between the molecule H and the molecule O and to throw a glimpse into the dimension that functions parallel to us, protected from all the pollution of the material worlds.

I wanted to climb grasping the black cracks of the universe attached firmly to some equipment of light constitution, almost imperceptibly to the scales that could serve me as a cane-radar through the invisible labyrinths of the macro spaces.

Something went wrong and I ended up in this dirty cave of schizo hues where animals that produce phobias become my principal food in this micro ecosystem where it seems that I am on top of the nourishing chain (unless the spiritual quasi-beings think of demonstrating their condition of destiny-changers and squash me like I squash the cockroaches and take me as an appetizer like I do with the insects in here or use me to satisfy their thirst of blood like I do with the rats).The religious stains sometimes are tri-dimensionalized mocking my eyes and deceiving my beliefs that are far away from being normal.

The worst punishment for a soul is to be trapped in a decrepit body and to be able to catch a glimpse of the disincarnate scopes that happen on the other side of the wind; however, mine would be happy to just walk your city streets and alleys.

OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA