Last night I struggled trying to fall asleep. My head was buzzing with the thought of the unknown and the many possibilities. I hope some of them become a reality soon. So I decided to get up and watch tennis. Tonight a vivid memory from my first 16 years of existence came back: my Dad’s little sleeping pill. It was known as ‘Somese’ in Colombia. I can just see him doing his nightly ritual of taking half of this little pill with a gulp of water, then he would read a couple more pages and lights out as he started feeling drowsy, satisfied with the achievements of his day, content that mum was only centimetres away…snoring. From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada).
Black bags (Bolsas negras)
Afflictions of mine,
my sorrows,
dismay that tries to drown me,
insomnia disguised as dreams,
the little pill of Triazolam.
my sorrows,
dismay that tries to drown me,
insomnia disguised as dreams,
the little pill of Triazolam.
Nostalgias of mine,
my oblivion,
bundle of memories:
move on to another being,
one whose heart is lost in thought;
go somewhere else
sorrows of mine, my nostalgias,
sad memories.
my oblivion,
bundle of memories:
move on to another being,
one whose heart is lost in thought;
go somewhere else
sorrows of mine, my nostalgias,
sad memories.
Ask the binman
to walk by the house of a man
who has placed on the sidewalk
black bags filled with anguish,
with melancholy,
with sadness and sorrows,
old and new…
so that he picks them up and disposes them
in the most remote latrine.
To the receipts of gruesome merchandiseto walk by the house of a man
who has placed on the sidewalk
black bags filled with anguish,
with melancholy,
with sadness and sorrows,
old and new…
so that he picks them up and disposes them
in the most remote latrine.
I add a tax of nameless bitterness
with no known price.
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