A quagmire of stories

My uni­verse is enough for me, it seems, although it is an illu­sion. If I man­age to be alone most of the time, between the few cubic meters of a Mon­tre­al apart­ment, I am nev­er­the­less attached to every­one, to the cho­sen melodies slid­ing through the Inter­net to my ears, to my friends, to my fam­i­ly as well as to the many office col­leagues with whom I earn a salary and build pro­grammed castles.

But in the end, I’m con­tent with my world. Only me can breathe it, can inter­pret it. Droplets form under the lid of a slow cook­er, a star­ry uni­verse takes shape on an immersed roast­ing pan, but I can’t help but see stars, invis­i­ble bee cells.

I am sat­is­fied with my mad­ness, and I wor­ry about it. It push­es me to a silent roman­ti­cism, to breathe the pres­ence of oth­ers as if all this were hon­ey of a sin­gle sea­son. This same and imper­turbable mad­ness encour­ages me to believe that I could live with­in Span­ish, Andalu­sian walls.

For a long time, I want­ed to be famous. Now I glo­ri­fy a quag­mire of sto­ries, wrap­ping myself in sweet thoughts, sleep­ing more and more, soft­ened by dreams, fan­tasies, per­haps after all, by the naivety of want­i­ng to be hap­py at all costs.