There is one out there that has the same face as me. Goes around the streets smiling and greeting people, subathing, has better clothes and a better apartment and always rides around on his bicycle, so diligent, so clever, so clear; and goes to my friends and tells them, what's up mate, what will today bring, and I will tell you what it'll bring, a wonderful day and always, always new opportunities. He also speaks to strangers, two, three words, perhaps a phrase, he says good morning, good afternoon, and shows his teeth in a grimace that for one is friendly enough to inspire affection, and for other is so funny, but that brigthens the day of both. But that is not me.
There is one out there who has my own voice and sings in the corners and responds with sincerity to questions and confesses the feelings that press his chest, and is outraged when something outrageous happens, and gets upset when it is necessary to get upset, and when along come the bad times he says that everything will pass, that later shall the sun rise from the east, like every day, that it never stops dawning and that the if the Earth had stopped we would have noticed by now. But that is not me.
There is one out there who walks with the rhythm that I do, or rather with better rhythm, because the serpent of irresponsibility and fear is not rolled up in his leg, fear that weights and cripples, fear that swells the feet and numbs the muscles, fear that stops you from looking at your legs because you know that there where there should be human feet there are hooves of a goatling or a cow or maybe frog legs or a couple of claws of macaw too, anything that tells you that these are not feet, and you are not you, you are the chullachaki who stands next to the people you know, tricking them with your faces, and attracts them to the jungle, here, here, a little farther, to the right, going up the third trunk you see, and then runs out and leaves them in the middle of nowhere with no means to locate... But that's not me.
There is one out there who sits in the same chair as me, who lies in the same bed, who cooks with my pots and pans and in the same burners as me, but when he sits he is not uncomfortable, he is not crooked, he doesn't feel that he must change position without knowing which to adopt next; and when he goes to bed he knows that he's going to sleep and does not lie down in vain or because his back hurts, and he puts his head on the pillow and says, OK, this wonderful day is over, and he smiles and the sun has come out but he is rested and happy whether he has slept 4, 6 or 8 hours; and when he cooks he tries the food and it tastes like something, and he says, let's use some thyme today, or maybe some sage fits this well, or some bay leaves will not go badly, and he tries again and says perfect, just a little more salt, and cooks like he wants to eat, like he's hungry and has an appetite and not like it's already 12 o'clock and it's time for one to eat. But that could be me.
There is one out there who writes all night and finishes the projects he starts, and writes to those who promise to write, and makes plans and enjoys them, and one of those days that I go out of inertia or necessity, I'm going to go a little further away from what I'm going now and I'm going to cross him and I'll tell him, I-do-not-believe-it man, you must be the chullachaki, the doppelganger, the imitator, and he will disarm me with laughter like a torrent and he's gonna say a dude, look at your legs, it's all right, realize it, you're an image of one I was but you need to merge with me, I need you too, because you can not be you without your fears to help you avoid the slippery terrain, without the filters that protect you from bad people and damage, without the low energy cycles that let you think about what you have done, calmly and without the frenzy of happiness, which in excess also damages the nerves... And at the end I might as well ponder it and say, look here, I think I'm that one too.
