Читать книгу Let them all tell you what happened - Mercedes Pescador - Страница 20

It’s too early to start a day which repeats itself until tonight time, but it’s now over two hours ago since dawn’s first light. The calandra-lark perches on the bars of the dining room window. With sharp moves it looks at the corners while its tail moves up and down like blinking, it pecks on a mummified insect trapped in a spiderweb. It looks like it’s frowning and it’s staring at me with persistence. It’s like it’s challenging me, arrogant and smiley. Its eyes are fixed on me. I feel I’m safe in my fish tank, like an axolotl. The bird is sideways and in his eye I look for Ariadne’s thread to come out of this fiction. Fiction is also a labyrinth. I look and get lost in its eye’s iris, through the different cylindrical passages until I find the right one, I open the door and see the small round mirror, that one that hanged from a rusty nail in the shower in Mitre street, the mirror that, when I was a young boy, couldn’t show me who I was then. The other passages are false because they tell me about progress, productivity, success, competency, but they all orbit around the same thing, and they keep us waiting to then suffocate us in non-renovated waters.

I was opening doors and keeping myself busy reading about dystopian worlds where the end of the world would find humanity fighting with their last weapons in a scenario which was grey after explosions, chaotically deforested, flapping in dry rivers or cities which were unconsciously collapsing like components of a dream. But, always with humanity as the last survivor switching the light off.

The calandra-lark doesn’t have an ego, for sure, it glides on the air because it’s part of the colours of that sky which doesn’t have beginning or end. I make a sudden move to drink my mate and the bird takes off, flying towards a clear sky of an artificial blue hint like the Oaxaca sky. The calandra-lark is now just a speck in the vast sky… Getting smaller and smaller, an eye’s pupil; and farther, a virus, a threat, until its particles became condensed in the reflections of April’s sun.