Dammit! It's very late, and I left my keys at home again. After a frantic search through my pockets, I don't have many options but to sit in front of my door until my roommate arrives. Here I am, the back against the wall, legs crossed, on the dirty hallway floor; staring at the wooden hurdle. Behind it, a meal and a bed await me. Fucking keys!
On the smudges, I see faces. On the carving, unpleasant figures. As my eyes wander over the imperfections of the door's wood, I remember a poem I read a long time ago. I have to admit; I had a few more beers than I should have, so rambling is to be expected. Where was I? The poem. It is about a person that goes out at night to take the trash but a current shuts the door, and he happened to have left the keys inside. What a loser, right? Just like me.
It turns out that the poor guy was a philosopher without knowing it. There, having been left out, he realizes something huge. Death must feel just like that; you're alone and helpless in the dark, with the trash in your hand, hearing the happy voices of the rest. And you can't do a fucking thing.
Era uno de esos dÃas en que todo sale bien.
HabÃa limpiado la casa y escrito
dos o tres poemas que me gustaban.
No pedÃa más.
Entonces salà al pasillo para tirar la basura
y detrás de mÃ, por una correntada,
la puerta se cerró.
Quedé sin llaves y a oscuras
sintiendo las voces de mis vecinos
a través de sus puertas.
Es transitorio, me dije;
pero asà también podrÃa ser la muerte:
un pasillo oscuro,
una puerta cerrada con la llave adentro
la basura en la mano.
📖 - Fabián Casas (Argentina, 1965)
Thank you, 