dumb, wordless confession...

I have done something terrible. Yet I'm not ready to confess.
I have done something terrible, far beyond the ordinary. I planed it meticulously. I calculated it to the point of no admissible mistake. I though it with no errors. And I executed it to perfection. Everything have been planed. Every little and possible detail calculated with all its imaginable variants. Timing was perfect, flawless. Like the perfect crime. A clean, precise cut. No witnesses. Only me. Only the victim. Thè Ärchytèct ôf Käôz, they call me. Those who have suffered by my hand or my actions. Like the architect, I plan. Like the architect, I calculate, and get plans into actions. Actions done to perfection, always with the minimum mistake as goal.
Thè Ärchytèct ôf Käôz, they call me. The name fits me well. It suits me too well.
I have done something terrible, and I did it totally conscientious of the hows, the whats, and the consequences. Causality. I was looking after them.
Cause and consequence. I did it entirely willingly. I'm a monster. Yet it is not the worst I have done. And I know I can do much more. For I am a monstrous being. Yet I don't feel bad nor guilty. I am telling for I wanted to, not because I needed to confess.
I am a monstrous being.
I have done something terrible. Willingly. Yet I'm not ready to confess. And I may never want to...I am a monster...

A Boy's Tale...

There was once this kid, who had to leave his homeland. He was forced to leave, in some way. He left to go into a journey that led him far beyond the seas.
He went to a new land. Where the sun raised earlier, and the rain used to fall more often, and lasted longer. A land where he met loneliness at it's maximum expression. A place darker than outer space, despite the sunrise. A land where he found new friends to shine life with, to share joy with, to enjoy life with...yet, loneliness was there, deep inside him. Hiding in his doorway, always waiting the moment he closed the door to strike him as an arrow.
And his gaze became grey, like the sky in the rainy nights. Like haunted by the sorrow of all that he has left behind. But some times, in order to achieve our dreams we must let go of somethings, even what we want the most.
Even those we care the most.
How far one must go, it depends only on how bad we want that dream to become true. So he did. In a very special way, he was a monstrous creature. He gave up valuable things, just to achieve what he wanted the most. He would not let anything to stand between his dream an his path. Anything, nor anyone.
So he was there, alone and all on his own, in a new place yet he had friends. Good ones. Yet he felt some times alone. Missing those left behind, he some times sought company, and some times he merged in the crowd just to feel the human warmth else than his own. He sought to be with his friends, and their families; not because he felt part of them, but because the mere scent of family made him remember his own kind, his own people.
And that felt good. It was something he missed, and it hurt having to leave them. His family. His closest friends, friends not only of his own kind but from many species. They were all part of the same.
A family. His family.
But he would see them again. Time shall tell. But that was something he was sure of. But there was one above everyone else he missed the most. One whose name was forbidden to the wind. That one was like a paradox. The source of inspiration and despair.
Like hope. Hope is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of our greatest strength and our greatest weakness. And so was for him, even the slightest thought was lethal, and, at the same time, comforting.
And the kid, far from home, found that what matters in the end, is not what you have, nor where you belong, but what you really are. He came to this conclusion only after finding beneath his own self the courage and the will to do what he had to. The spells and charms, he knew them all, only the power to call them, to cast them was needed. And he found it. He became a hero. He became a story worth telling.
So he lived his life one day at the time, but always taking care of the future, thinking, planning. And of course, keeping in mind the past. For a man's path lies beyond tomorrow, but the background cannot be denied.
And the history became legend. And the legend became myth. But no one now lives to remember it.
His name? He has had many names. Ancient names only the wind and the trees can spell...

DE MI PASO POR ÉSTE MUNDO

DE MI PASO POR ÉSTE MUNDO

Autobiografía, Capítulo I

Éste es el recuerdo de una vida. Una vida poco común, de una persona poco común. Mi vida, mi historia. Mi nombre: los mortales me conocen como José Gustavo De la Cruz Herrera.

Mi relato comienza el día 25 de febrero de 1986, en alguna sala de parto en el hospital de Lomas de Chapultepec, en la delegación Miguel Hidalgo, allá en la Ciudad de México. En punto del cenit de aquel día, ingresaron a mi madre a la sala de parto, con contracciones que indicaban el advenimiento de mi ser a este mundo. Lo recuerdo vagamente, aunque con una claridad poco usual.

Ahí estaba yo, cómodamente suspendido en una piscina hecha a mi medida, mi pequeño y tibio mundo. Yo estaba plácidamente dormido, hasta que comencé a sentir cierta presión. Las contracciones. Yo no me quería ir de aquel utópico mundo, así que me resistí.

De repente, me empecé a sentir calientito y muy ligero. El eco de mis latidos resonaba en el interior de mi pequeña esfera, y una sensación extraña invadió mi diminuto sistema. Abrí mis ojos y me sorprendí al notar que de mi nariz salían algo así como patitas. Mi mano se doblaba vacilante al moverse y en los pies tenía un dedo extra. No sabía contar aún, pero sabía que habían más dedos que la última vez que me fijé. Estaba drogado. Una primera dosis de anestesia había sido administrada derectamente en el sistema nervioso de mi made, e inevitablemente una microdosis se filtró hasta mi sistema, repercutiendo en mi propio cuerpo y provocando mis peculiares alucinaciones.

Repentinamente perdí mi presencia de espíritu y al parecer quedé inconsciente, pues no recuerdo qué pasó después. Sólo recuerdo que en un instante, mi piscina se secó; y una cegadora luz penetraba mi barrera. Acto seguido empezaron los forcejeos, tirones y giros. Me estaban extrayendo. Algo gomoso me estaba sacando de mi santuario. El doctor a cargo, se dio a la tarea de “traerme al mundo”, con el lujo de ni si quiera preguntarme si era ése mi deseo. Abrí mis ojos para tratar de ver, pero la luz era demasiado intensa, demasiado blanca. Y yo no conocía la luz. Me sentí aturdido ante tanto ruido y los rumores de las enfermeras, y me colgaron boca abajo. Entonces volví a abrir los ojos y lo ví. Ahí estaba, con su gorrito y su traje azul. Ese hombre era el responsable de los últimos momentos de sufrimiento por los que acababa de pasar. Él y nadie más que él era culpable de haberme sacado de mi cómoda piscina. Lo miré fijamente, tratando de gesticular todo mi odio ante su espeso bigote.

Pero el “doc” no se inmutó, sino que me dió la vuelta y sin más preámbulo me dió mi primer nalgada.

Recién llegado al mundo y ya estaba yo llorando, sufriendo del maltrato y el abuso, y con un letrero que decía “Éste es tu nuevo mundo, bienvenido al primero del resto de tus días”. Aparentemente una enfermera se apiadó de mí y me arrebató de las manos de aquel hombre, y me envolvió en una manta. Cómoda, suave y tibia, pero nada comparado con el vientre materno. Y así, tras varias dosis de anestesia y al cabo de poco más de 17 horas de trabajo de parto, siendo la 1:22 de la madrugada del 26 de Febrero de 1986, yo, Gustavo, nací.