Dishonest eyes

                                        Dishonest eyes




    A different image comes back when he reflects his face, his unique expressions, in the red mirror, perhaps the glass is dirty, perhaps it's his pathetic imagination, or those brown imperfect eyes are lying to him again. He thinks he is confused, but he is not; he thinks he had changed. Perhaps he did change; physically, emotionally; sarcastically changed. Maybe he is not as strong as he used to be, or as he thought he was. He did not believe in evolution or metamorphosis until tonight; he did not believe in self-comprehension, or self-finding until tonight; he did not believe or trust that complicated God last night and tonight he knows that character does not exist. "It's all illusion, all optical illusions", he says. Possibly his changed image is just that, an illusion. He keeps staring at the red mirror, and he tries to define his facial language. He is in a bad mood, of course he is; he hates the world, of course he does; he is lost, sure he is; he thinks he knows his psychology, and about philosophy, but that is not true. Now he smiles, with irony; now he cries, at least he tries, with dignity; now he feels wild, for a while, for him that's serenity.

    The doors are playing in the background, "people are strange when you're a stranger…" He's remembering past times; too many books read; too many different faces seen, but he wishes only to reencounter with a few; too many places explored; too many broken promises, unaccomplished dreams, but endless hopes (memory against imagination.) Somebody told him once that he was too simple ("simplicity is the ultimate sophistication," according to Leonardo DaVinci ;) has no wealth, because he's mentally rich; no jewelry, because he shines among the stars; he doesn't need nice expensive shoes to walk over the seas.

    Two hands, two wrinkled anonymous hands had changed just like him, twin hands which accomplished their role, helping him to stand up every time he fell down. He doesn't ask for more, he doesn't regret, neither forget, because he always did what he wanted.

    That familiar voice again, "we chase our pleasures here, throw our treasures there…" Morrison's best quote he afirms. Solitude, his favorite company; music, his unavoidable escape; literature, his cosmopolitan mentor; alcohol, his perfect excuse; routine, his worst nightmare; and society, it's just something he does not comprende. Comprende? No, I don't believe he quiets understand. "Love me two times, I'm gone away…" He sings wordless, he enjoys living in wonderland.

    Suddenly, he decides to close his eyes, and open his mind. His cracked lips are dry, so he kisses the cold dirty glass, daring to drink a little more, while he sees the red mirror vanishing. He would like to freeze that remote time, he only wants to live that moment over and over again; he would love to capture that exact second and hide it in his pocket; he would like to feel that flying sensation for ever.

    The bar, it's packed, too noisy, he cannot concentrate; coins dancing over the counter, dangerous bills going from one hand to another; laughs, and dark murmurs drilling his big ears. Finally, he opens his eyes, and the red liquid mirror lies to him again in its reflection. A different image comes back, perhaps the glass is dirty, perhaps he needs to take another sip of the finest red wine in the city. He likes it. He knows he's drunk, he likes it. He is feeling different while the mirror disappeared and he completely forgets his real aspect, authentic figure.

    He pays the bill to the bartender, wondering how much he would owe life if there was ever a bill to pay. "Thanks, my friend -he says- see you tomorrow night, same time, same drink, different mood" After he grabbed his old jacket, he steps outside; where reality is waiting for him; where the night dressed the streets with the darkest tapestry; where his heart palpitates too fast, like if it knew what his mind ignored, like if it was eroded, broken, paranoid; where the rain drops of October scratched the windows; and where he walks freely. He's too drunk; he cannot stand still, or focus his vision with clarity. He seats down on a wet step to think, to act like he was thinking. He now wants to exploit, to evaporate like the puddles in the sunniest summer day. He cries, at least he tries, and he tastes sour tears without wanting. He cries quietly, the biggest torture, that is cruelty. He, who has nothing but the comfort of his sense, shuts his eyes down hoping to go back to that illusionary sensation, to that rare moment, but it doesn't work this time, and he keeps crying. He finds no reason for another breath, but he stands up anyhow and he continues walking until he sees a puddle on the wet ground. Happily he gets on his knees and reflects in that clear mirror. Now the mirror is clear, not red, he does not need to reflect against red wine anymore. Now he smiles, again, with irony. A different image comes back when he reflects his unique expressions, perhaps the water it's dirty, perhaps it's his pathetical imagination, or those brown imperfect eyes are lying to him again.
 
Esteban Barreto