Wandering Souls

Wandering souls
Maybe because I missed walking through the lightless back alleys, maybe because the puddles were barely reflecting the dusk in half hues. But mostly because I was looking for the world of candles, where a procession of perishable lives is formed waiting for the eternal blow. At the end, it is all because I am an imperial vagabond, I have a broken soul and I look for redemption in some crevice of the sweated city. It is also because I miss your breath and all the times that you were breathing the same air that was being expelled by my lungs and I could sniff the traces of alcohol and tobacco that remained in your interior. Simply because I am a hunter of souls that snoops like a spectator into the particular theatres. But I don’t know until which point I can differentiate if I am a participant or just a witness in the films of life?
In some corner I find the way to become ubiquitous and I can caress this city scribbled with technology and dressed in black leather with ornaments of graffiti colour. Then all the stories seem to converge inside my psyche and I feel like a semi-god that distracts himself with borrowed tales so he can disguise the lacking of his kingdom; then I justify my god.
Inside the ghetto I can see the walls stained with sticky auras, the speed of the mind reduces velocity below the permitted limits and I take advantage to blow some flames to see the results of the cocky actions inherent to the powerful beings. As I feel the tenuous fragility of the threads of life I am scared and I retreat to a more inoffensive place.
I don’t know why I always liked the food of the hospitals, maybe because I could see some ailing souls trying to decide if they should cross the wire or remain in their corporal repression. Then I could swallow them and absorb their stories like the smoke of a cigarette. Better said, I inhale the echo of the smoke that is left from their candles when they are extinguished. That last cleft that allows me to review the letters tattooed in the plaits of time. Then I fly at extravagant speed to aspire all the holy smokes.
In the caverns of the world there inhabit beings that guard us from invisible roofs like waiting for the catharsis. I have seen them while I slide through the sepia aisles that open silently between the lightest particles. They have a sick colour that does not correspond to any of the ones in here. Generally, I slip away through the dimension of the mirrors and from this side, the mirror in the washroom is not that cruel. I watch the pores of my shut face, like a lunar map full of black trees without vegetation. Like epic spikes rising to protect the territory of the inside, the one that is beyond the flesh in the last crevice of privacy. In the meantime, I can spend some time between the normality of the masks and try to mould it in the letters of time.
After that I will have time to invade those crevices of privacy belonging to strange people.

OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA