The mark of the past

It is just memory that we need sometimes. It is certain that we should not live in the past, but the past is the memory of the future. The memory of the past helps us to remember little details. Past details that belong to the future. 

• Tell me, have you ever thought of the past? 
• Are you interested in my thinking of the past  ..... (Silence)
• Yes, I am. Very much so, indeed. 
• And, what do you think? 
• Sometimes I think about when I was nothing. We were dust that belonged to the future. And you? Do you think about the past?
• I have never had such an idea in mind. I don't even know what the past is. 
• If it had not been for that danaus chrysippus, you would be still thinking of the past. 
• How do you know it? It was so beautiful and colourful, but ephemeral. 
• I knew that you would remember it! I knew it! There were a lot of letters, numbers, loads of laughs full of innocence. The light, was entering through the windows, we ran desperately, there was a tower. Exactly, a tower! You raised your hand, and me…me, I was living, living my life. You remember right? I longed for present youth and future happiness.  And then, the snail followed his path. Although I did not know it either. I was not sure that there was a snail in the past. I have a sudden mental image of it, NOW, in the future. I can picture it with glowing thoughts. Right? You remember? tell me, you remember, right? 

• I don't know what you are talking about
• The horse, yes! the horse. An L shaped horse. Jack mate. 
• You have never paid attention to those things before. And the snail followed his path, and now you want me to think about the past. You care about my memory of the past, and of the tower and of nothing at all.
• If I had thought about the past out of the future, I would not know how to describe it now. You don't understand? Actually, I would not be thinking about it now. Not even the snail would be treading his path. He would have deviated from it.
• How long does a snail last?
• About 25 years, not as long as the butterfly. You remember?
• No, I don't. The butterfly… it wasn't a butterfly, it was a dragonfly. Oh my god, you are the one who doesn't remember anything!
• I have already told you. It is not good to put limits on our memories. The less you expect, the sooner it happens. It is not until that moment of impact in which the dragonfly becomes a butterfly, the butterfly lasts more than a wild snail, the past turns future, and you realise that you have been unconsciously observing the snail’s movements for more than ten years, that you understand that the snail’s process mustn't stop. He must not stop actually. He shall not deviate from it. Snails do not pay attention to anything, their sight is limited and, they only pop out at night. It is when you understand that if the snail would have stopped, just there, right in the palm of your hand, in an ever-fixed point, when you were about to touch it, it would have been as if you would have fed him with sugar, or even with salt. 
• Why?
• Because he would have died. Also, snails do not stop in ever-fixed points.
• So, would you dare to do it? 
• Maybe
• (Silence)
• Don't you wanna ask anything else?
• Gonna go to bed, you remember? 
• What?
• I love that you remember. The butterfly, the snail, the tower, the hand, our talks, the window, and the light. And the L shaped horse. Jack Mate. And, well, what do we do till the snail stops? 
• He is not going to stop. He will never do it. 
• But, it lasts 25 years, doesn't it? 
• Not this one, no. This one will last what we help him last longer. When you stop asking me about it and I stop thinking about you, then it will stop. 
• It’s okay then. Let’s go to bed. 

I was inspired in Virginia Woolf’s Kew Gardens, a magnificent short story full of conceits, metaphors and love. 

Vestigio en el olvido

Algunas veces sólo necesitas memoria. Es cierto que dicen que no se debe vivir en el pasado, pero su recuerdo es el futuro. La memoria del pasado ayuda a recordar pequeños detalles con los que entender cosas, cosas pasadas que pertenecen al futuro.

- Dime, ¿has pensado alguna vez en el pasado?

- ¿Te interesa si pienso en el pasado?

- Silencio.

- Pues si. Lo hago a menudo.

- Y, ¿qué piensas?

- En cuando no era nada. Éramos el polvo del futuro. Y tu, ¿piensas en el pasado?

- Nunca he tenido esa idea en la cabeza. Ni siquiera sé lo que es el pasado.

- Si no hubiese sido por esa danaus chrysippus aún estarías pensando en el pasado.

- ¿Cómo lo sabes? Era tan bonita, colorida y efímera.

- ¡Ves como te acuerdas!. Había tantas letras, tantos números, decenas de risas llenas de inocencia. La luz, entraba por las ventanas, corríamos desesperadamente, había una torre. Exacto, ¡una torre! Tú levantabas tu mano, y yo... yo vivía. ¿Te acuerdas, verdad? Y luego el caracol seguía su rumbo. Aunque en el pasado, yo tampoco sabía que había un caracol. Su imagen me ha llegado ahora, en el futuro. ¿Verdad? ¿Te acuerdas? ¿Te acuerdas?

- No se de qué me hablas.

- El caballo, en forma de ele. Jaque mate.

- Nunca prestaste atención a esas cosas antes. Y el caracol recorría su camino, y ahora pretendes que piense en el pasado, y en la torre, y en nada.

- Si hubiese recordado el pasado fuera del futuro, no sabría describirlo ahora. Ni siquiera el caracol seguiría caminando.

- ¿Cuánto dura un caracol?

- Unos 25 años, no tanto como la mariposa. ¿Te acuerdas?

- No, no me acuerdo. La mariposa, no era una mariposa era una libélula. ¡Ves!, la que no te acuerdas eres tu.

- Ya te lo he dicho, no es bueno ponerle límites a la memoria. Aparece cuando menos te lo esperas. En ese momento en el que justo la libélula se transforma en mariposa, la mariposa dura más que un caracol salvaje, el pasado es futuro, y te das cuenta de que llevas observando inconscientemente los movimientos del caracol más de diez años, comprendes que no quieres que el caracol interrumpa su camino. Los caracoles no escuchan, ni ven, y sólo salen por la noche. Es, en ese momento, cuando entiendes que si el caracol se hubiese parado, justo ahí en la palma de tu mano, apoyándose en un punto fijo, cuando estabas a punto de cogerlo, habría sido como darle azúcar -o incluso sal-.

- ¿Por qué?

- Porque hubiese muerto. Los caracoles no ejercen fuerza sobre puntos concretos.

- Entonces, ¿te arriesgarías?

- Quizás

- Silencio.

- ¿Ya no preguntas?

- Me voy a la cama, ¿te acuerdas?

- ¿De que?

- Me gusta que te acuerdes. La mariposa, el caracol, la torre, la mano, nuestras risas, la ventana, la luz. Y el caballo en forma de ele. Jaque mate. Y, bueno, ¿que hacemos hasta que el caracol pare?

- No va a parar, jamás lo hará.

- Pero, ¿no duraba 25 años?

- Este no, este dura lo que nosotros duremos. Cuando tu dejes de preguntarme y yo de recordarte, entonces parará.

- Me parece bien. Vámonos a la cama.


Inspirada en Virginia Woolf "Kew Gardens"

He & she

He looked at her, she was staring at him for a minute or so and then it stopped, he smiled. 

It had been happening for three days in a row. Then it stopped again. 

They could perfectly understand each other. His eyes were full of passion, hers were more kind of doubtful. 

She read his mind. He read hers. There was a bunch of emerging emotions which had been inside both of them for a while. They blew up as it was expected. 

He took her hand, assertively. Her eyes hold a bright shadow between her eyebrows and cheeks, and there was a peaceful expression upon her face. There was a transparent light between them. It linked them both in such a reciprocal manner that a burning desire of kissing emerged. 

Then, a mark on his heart, like an ever fixed stain, appeared in the middle of his chest as if his emotions were going to be released. However, they were not. He kept the truth inside his heart and told it with his eyes. 

They never let go of each other's hands