Catcher of words.

I don’t promise that I can change the world, but I promise that I can find words that will truly change the world. — Tupac Amaru Shakur

I try to step into the same water twice. The river runs faster than my thoughts. What is born in my head resembles hot lava, which leisurely spreads and looks for an exit. Into a door through which it has never entered.

Thoughts swirl in a round dance. Clutching tightly by hands, afraid of losing meaning. The links of the chain are tense. Running in a vicious circle is mesmerizing. To leave the distance means to break out to a new level. The coupling points are like the end of the previous and the beginning of the next. Sentences are tied in a nautical knot.

The ligament requires lubrication so as not to stumble. Friction stops the process due to pain and discomfort. The car derails. The chain breaks. The thought breaks. Sharp fragments hurt. Sentences are dismembered. Words bleed letters. Everything is mixed with a mixer to the point of madness. The chandelier bulbs go out.

You sleep in my dream. I am afraid to frighten your inhalation and exhale for you. I touch your hand, but it is clutching a ballpoint pen. I press my whole body against you, but the cold wall pushes away the ping-pong ball. I dive into the water, but like a turtle I fall into the hot sand, crunching chips on my teeth. I run along the waves. My legs get tangled in foamy skirts.

You surrender to Morpheus. Without a fight. Without a single shot. Without resistance. Your legs try on handcuffs. Hands in iron bracelets finger the rosary beads of chains. The surrender pact is signed with a brand. The key to solitary confinement flies away. Like the wind. Like a bird. Like a word, a drop of rain that fell from the eyes of God. You know the truth that makes you free.

The bed holds you with wide sheets, putting a straitjacket on you. You freeze like a tiger before a jump. A compressed spring waits. Stillness in chaos attracts. Attention stops dragging behind every short skirt. Desires are shoved into boxes with inventory numbers of the year of birth. Memory freezes before the choice of what to wear, black or red. A white sheet irritates with cleanliness. A purple drop of ink spreads on the floor.

A dark spot grows. Like blood pulsating from a wound. Like an oil fountain sucked out by a drilling rig. Like a volcano awakened by an alarm clock. A puddle turns into a lake. Forgetting about the edges, it splashes like a sea. The waves are agitated, measuring their height. The deep black ocean whispers with white noise in your ears. In an aquarium of life behind a glass wall.

The darkness calls you as a puppy abandoned by its mother. The loins tremble, afraid to stumble into the abyss. The nostrils catch familiar smells, unbraiding braids of fiery hair with a thread of gray. A ball of white yarn is looking for a way out of the labyrinth, but has not yet entered. Having stepped over the threshold of the unknown, the door slams. The bolt creaks, lowered by someone into the loops tightening around the neck. The bridge is blown up. The rolling wave cuts the world into dry and wet.

A glass eye sticks to the surface of a boiling brew. You peer intently into the darkness. Waiting for manifestation. The body freezes like a monument. A fly wipes its feet in front of your nose. Stamps, not daring to enter. Time stretches like chewing gum. The beating of the heart moves the second hand. The hunt begins. You are ready to attack. The trigger grips the finger with a glove, challenging to a duel. Just don’t mix up the roles. The show must go on. Even if the curtain has fallen like sails.

The hunter is seized by a passionate desire to shoot, a desire to do it one way or another. The desire becomes so strong that the brain, in order to relieve the tension, commands the eyes to see what is not there. — Stephen King

No one wants to die. The wounded dam chokes with hiccups. The water’s mouth opens wider and wider. The jaws tear off the locking bolts. The freedom of the uncontrollable flow kills. It is not too late to change your mind about pulling the trigger. In an attempt to negotiate. With words that have died.

You know because you have seen something. Only what happens to you happens. No one sees the world through your eyes. How the blackness opens up like the gates of a cave. How a stream of dirty sludge swirls in a dance of vortex. How someone’s hairy hand nails your hands and feet to the cross, directing it to the bottom of the dungeon grotto. The cemetery of sunken words is ominously silent.

While you are silent, all the words belong to you. If you speak, the words do with you what they want. There are so many of them around, like sand on the bottom of the sea. Torn, crossed out, spat out, wiped out. With holes and rusty spots. With torn off wings. Gaping with emptiness. Stupid and funny. Offensive and cruel. Long and short. Used without a condom. Lines stitched with white thread along black cuts. Fallen from social networks. Born of artificial intelligence. Killed by those who said them.

Words are thrown at the feet, ready to be trampled by indifference. Weak hands, like a translator of the language of the mute, stretch out with their last strength. They are silent. A plea rings in the silence. Like a sprout, a seed breaking through a spacesuit, they need to throw off the watery blanket, breathing in fresh air. To crawl out of the dark basement of forgetfulness. To wash themselves with light, putting on a wedding dress. To scream so that they can hear.

You know because you understood something. You are the chosen one to revive words. And condemned to make them speak. Again. Like once. With bright notes of sound. With recognizable accents. With content brought out of the shadows. Having breathed new life into them.

You are a catcher of words. You return here when you do not find the right ones. You dive into the inky sea to find pearls. You repair the nets so that not a single letter slips through the mesh. Directing the schools of dumb fish that you will teach singing. With words that you will not throw out of the song. That fly like butterflies to the light of a white sheet. Lying on it with the handwriting of a ballpoint pen that you hold in your hands.

When I open my eyes, the crumpled, cold sheets are sad. You sit at the table with a sweet smile. You write, write, write. With words that you got from the bottom of the deepest sea. Having caught a huge golden fish that breathes and speaks freely. With you. Fulfilling any desire. Always.

Tomorrow, everything will repeat itself. In an endless stream of love. You catch words in a dream that in reality change the world. I know this, because I understood something.

The words you catch write this story. Just read it.