Pablo

Photo by Ajay Zula on Unsplash

He was still hearing those voices in his head when he arrived to the plaza. He believed going out might help. It didn’t, but at least it didn’t make it any worse, he thought.

He saw people all around him, walking and going places, and most of it didn't make sense to him. The simple act of people doing things felt wrong. How it is that behavior can be tied together any any form beyond being totally erratic seemed beyond him. He felt like it might make sense, but what was amazing how people themselves saw the sense behind their actions and bought it. “Their voices are just the same” he thought.

He had had episodes like this before, and to some extent had learn to live with them. Making peace was hard, but now he just keeps on living, and it seems to be working.

He can still vaguely remember of a time when dreams and aspirations made sense to him, and even consumed him. Today everyday comes after the next in an endless loop of events which hit him too quick to plan ahead and even barely so to respond. It was’t always this way. Once, his ideas and ideals pushed him to do things and plan things. He was apt in the art of living, or at least doing what people call living. He is not that boy anymore, but he still remembers him.

Walking through the square a peculiar pigeon calls his attention. How it walks, sees the world, eats; it is majestic and natural. The pigeon is in its fight with the world, being itself and nothing else, not wishing anything. Fight seems an adequate word, but there’s nothing fighting back. Perhaps it’s more of a struggle. It might be. And he keeps looking at the pigeon, as it frantically rotates its neck and move its head to simply map out the things around it. Absolutely inelegant, but fluid in its own way. He likes the pigeon, it makes him feel safe, even beyond the clear monstrosity of its complexion, it carries an untold grace.

He takes a seat on a bench. He is too tired and everything moves around him. He focuses on the ground, watching his feet and the cobble beneath them. It might be early in the day, or late in the evening, both look the same. He doesn’t know but takes solace in the fact he doesn’t need to. Tomorrow will come even if he is unsure of precisely when it will come. So he keeps on looking at the floor, and passes out.

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About wicked people, from one of them

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Felipe Acosta

Felipe Acosta

Writing stories; code, literature.

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