Untitled - Cesar Badillo Year 2

Dead skin dancing in my bedrooms stagnant air, illuminated by the faint light coming from the half closed curtain in front of my bedroom window. I woke up late today, as the day was ending and the sun was setting my eyes barely began to open. I feel the itch in my throat, the void in my stomach and the cloud in my head; symptoms that mark the excess of dreams and the presence of sloth. I thought of the few reasons I had to get up, I went through them ad nauseam, making the short minutes feel like hours. Despite the atrophied synapses caused from the torpor of sleep, I managed to remind myself that it was a weekend. There were no responsibilities today, nothing to pull the chains with enough force to start the engine of routine. The monotony of labour would be replaced with the possibility of self-realization – opportunity so tightly scheduled that it itself becomes another routine.

I should feel good; I should be filled with the spontaneous ecstasy that comes at the realization of opportunity and rest. Or I should rejoice at the fact that at least for a day I would not be obligated to walk the usual daily rut. That at least for a day I would not have to deal with the hordes of vacant eyes or smell the diabetic breath coming out of my managers’ tired mouth. But as I stare at the pale pastel shade of my bedroom’s ceiling I feel no joy or sorrow. I am stuck in the profound inertia of my apathy, lacking in absolute, any subtle, minuscule, extract of ambition.

My bowels groan.

***

Autumn is a faint season. People dislike the early darkness of the day and the silent cold that follows it. The narrow village streets are lonely; few brave the solitude of fall. But when I pass by the occasional traveller I feel the distant warmth of sympathy; knowing that for a second we are levelled to the same plane of struggle. For a short instance our beings mirror in recognition and solidarity.

Apart from the periodic lights produced from the approaching vehicles in the obscure horizon, I am left with the arithmetic illumination of the parallel series of street lights. Their warm glow not only light the way forward, but also invoke a false sense of security within me. Like a child that fears the darkness of night until the first light of dawn, the electric light of the torches mocks the radiance of the sun. The perfect orbs of light bordering the heavy umbra, feel invasive; a constructed artefact interrupting the smooth, natural silence of the night.

The stranger’s walk is quick and unorganized, he is in a hurry. His hands are cocooned inside his coat to shelter them from the lifeless frost in the wind. A subtle hunch deforms his shadow and projects an outline reminiscent of the occult. He faces me, and heads the other way, over to the suburbs, back to warmth and comfort. A quiet farewell – he disappears, and I am left alone.