Leo entre goles obvios \ Loans entangle grizzly omens

Así que así era como se sentía uno al ser padre.

El dolor le retorcía el alma. Si hubiera ido con más cuidado, nada de esto hubiese pasado. Si le hubiese enseñado a hacer las cosas como era debido, se habría evitado un momento tan agónico. Pero no lo había hecho.

Percival había fallado como padre y ahora lo pagaba caro. Mañana tras mañana se despertaba y al poco de tomarse el café ¡ZAS! ese agudo dolor le atravesaba el cuerpo, casi tumbándolo. ¿Qué era lo que había hecho mal? ¿Por qué merecía él algo así?

Al final encontró la solución; desde que le escondía los Lego a su hijo Martín ya no se los encontraba esparcidos por el suelo cada mañana que iba a despertarlo, y, al no estar estos por ahí, Percival ya no los pisaba.

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So that was how being a father felt like.

The pain was gnawing his soul. If he had been more careful, none of this would have happened. If he had taught him how to correctly do things, he could have avoided such an agonizing experience. But he had not done it that way.

Percival had failed as a father and now he was paying the price. Every single morning of his life started the very same way; he woke up, started drinking coffee and then BANG! that sharp pain went through his whole body, nearly bringing him down. What had he done wrong? Did he really deserve such a pitiful existence?

But one day he casually found the solution; hiding his son's Lego bricks. Now Martin didn't know where they were, and since he couldn't find them he wouldn't play with them before going to bed. That meant that, when Percival went to his room to wake his son up, there were no Lego bricks for him to step upon.

Spitting out words

He got back into it; spitting words was what he loved the most of this life. Talking, even if what he said made no sense, was a way of freeing himself of the chains that some kind of stupid monster had laid upon him. Writing was how he got to stick down onto the ground the countless tentacles that the monster had; each letter was like a staple that immobilized a little piece of the beast's limbs.

That's why he did it. Yes, he also craved some kind of fame, as if what he was writing was worth something. He had those silly delusions of grandeur that helped him go one step further, the idea of being able to become huge, the wishful thinking of having his words appreciated; but that was just an added bonus.

Writing was like some kind of religion, it was his way of talking to whichever god he felt like talking to. He believed that the pure expression of writing the first thing that came to his mind was connecting him with it, that it was his way o showing him the way of being, existing, whatever. If something was right or wrong, the words would say it. The improvisation in itself was not an incoherent and continuous flux of ideas, but rather a constant message being delivered by a higher state of consciousness that saw it all clearer than him

It was also a way of emptying his mind; by writing down every single thought he came up with he got to leave them behind, to accept them as what they were and move on to the next stop. ¿Needing to work more? ¿Looking for your feeling to get right? Yes, they were problems, but not the ones that the text was about to solve. There were more important matters.

Yeah, maybe those issues seem bigger, but there's something way more important than what you'll do tomorrow, and it is what you'll do now. There is no tomorrow with no now, and there would have been no now without yesterday; that means that for getting to the solution of the issue you thought about a minute ago you just have to wait, to keep on living, to stay on the road sorting out every obstacle that comes up, and while you work at it the solution will come.

And it is not a passive view on problems; when that continuous flux of words says "working at shit" or "sorting out whatever" it means that there are everyday issues related to the future choices you'll be forced to make; how you face these issues on a dily basis will settle down the path you'll have to follow, so that once you're face to face with the problem you've been waiting for you don't have to think twice and simply act.

And as I said, the first step is to follow that voice into the instant future, that after those words are written becomes the now and when this sentence finishes it has already been. That instant future goes right through my bed, meaning that it's time to sleep.

Una mañana apurada.

Abrió apurado el cajón y sacó el dado que había estado buscando; seis caras con los números del 2 al 7, puntas bien definidas y esa pequeña fractura en uno de los bordes de cuando se le cayó escaleras abajo. Rápidamente, como si lo escondiese de alguien, se lo guardó en el bolsillo.

Entonces empezó a revolver el armario, buscando aquella camisa que había usado el 24 de junio de 2002 para ir a buscar a Marie al aeropuerto y después acompañarla al Café Luna para tomar dos cortados y un croissant recién hecho. Aunque no paraba de revolver el armario no era capaz de encontrarla; su camisa de cuadros, verde y rosa, no estaba en ningún lado.

Entonces se acordó que la había puesto a lavar hace el día anterior, fue a buscarla a la terraza, donde la ropa estaba tendida, y allí la encontró. En el mismo sitio se la puso y, sin los pantalones, fue corriendo hacia la cocina a prepararse un café.

Solo tres gotas cayeron de la máquina a la taza una vez que estaba ya preparado lo que sería su desayuno; solo permitía que cayeran tres gotas, siempre. Una vez habían caído cuatro y había tenido que tirar el café por el fregadero. No le gustaba lo de tirar comida, pero no podía beberse un café en el que habían caído cuatro gotas.

Volvió a la habitación y se puedo ágilmente los primeros pantalones que encontró, unos algo raídos que estaban sobre la silla (una que había heredado de la tía Clotilde hace 4 años y 7 meses), se calzó tan rápidamente como pudo y volvió a la cocina; solo había tardado 53 segundos, así que todavía estaba a tiempo de ver como el café llegaba a su punto.

Y se quedó observándolo.

Ocho...

Siete...

Seis...

Cinco...

Cuatro...

Tres...

Dos...

Uno...

Y entonces cogió el café y se lo bebió casi de un solo trago. Volvió a su habitación, cogió el maletín beige que había reposando al costado de su cama y salió disparado hacia la puerta. Miró por la mirilla dos veces antes de sacar la llave que tenía, desde hace ya algún tiempo, guardada en el bolsillo de aquel pantalón. Entonces metió la llave, la giró dos veces en sentido contrario a las agujas del reloj, una a favor, miró por la mirilla una vez más y después acabó de abrir la puerta.