By Yudi Kravzov
It ceased raining, but the energy in my room feels damp. It’s as if the cold air is mixed with a light mist.
With my eyes closed, I can see the blue sky. I focus so I can immerse myself in a divine mystery that makes me explode into a thousand particles of myself. I rest and then remember when many moans harmonized until they became one. I make my way through my wetness, and find myself playing with my lips and my neck. I feel myself wanting more. A million droplets run through me, making me feel alive, until a thunderous cough tears me out of my reverie and shakes me repeatedly. I curl up again, wanting to continue dreaming but am out of sorts, in the middle of the night. All I want is to go back to the dream, where I dream that my deepest self embraces me.
«It’s not COVID; it’s not COVID,» I comfort myself with that mantra. It was the first thing I discarded. The thing is, you have to be careful. It is advisable to dress well. Now that the cold is coming in, the rains cool. I cough again.
I get up. I go to the kitchen. I hear how it rains. I prepare a bougainvillea tea with apple and cinnamon to try to get rid of the discomfort of the cough and to hydrate, because I want to feel better.
I go back to bed. I open my eyes and keep thinking that my dream could be a premonition—that perhaps someone I still don’t know is nearby, dreaming with that same intensity, with that same passion.
Drowsy and sick, I breathe in slowly. I keep thinking that through simple hugs, we emit cosmic sparks, catalysts of human light from which emanates the pleasure of giving pleasure. And the idea of “pleasure of giving pleasure» makes me smile and gives me relief. It gives me peace, calm … “pleasure of giving pleasure.» I sigh.
The clock strikes four. I pour myself more tea. The movie «El Bulto» is on local television. Before my eyes, I see a life without cell phones or laptops—that lit cigarette in each scene, one telephone per family, and the airy hairstyles that paint the film with humor. I get into the story, but I can’t see the end because the pace of the edit ends up being a lullaby, and I fall asleep again.
At half past six I wake up. My throat is swollen, and I feel my ears exploding. I take a sip of cold tea. «I have to stay hydrated,» I repeat to myself. It’s not raining, but the energy in my room feels damp. It is as if the cold air has been mixed with light mist. My head is spinning between the sheets, while, with my eyes closed, I can fly to the beautiful blue sky of San Miguel.
I want to immerse myself in the divine mystery that makes me explode into a thousand particles of myself, but my body is so tired that I am still here, even though all I want is to sleep.
