Synchronize

I write the text that refuses to be written. It is afraid that words will wear out memories and are not enough to recreate moments. The text is right. The story, though real, would seem fiction. When two souls meet again and a hug is enough for their universes to merge, everything seems so natural and certain that it frightens.

I walk with my head down. He did not come. I put the bags in the back and the thoughts weigh more than luggage. I wear two backpacks and my thoughts weigh more than the luggage. I look at a young man sitting… I think of surprising him, until the moment I observe another figure walking towards me. I feel as if the veil is removed. The vision that was blurred becomes clear: I see the colors, the lights and my gaze fixed on his face. I remember a friend saying that some people are like works of art and don't need to make the slightest effort to get noticed.

I look away. If I keep watching him, I fear I may never want to leave, and become a ghost of the bus station. We continue walking. The silence is not strange and it seems necessary that I disguise the naturalness that I feel in his presence.

“Have you been waiting for me for a long time?”

“About twenty minutes ago...”

I apologize for being late. I wanted to get on the bus and pretend that meeting never happened. I wanted to say that I had never seen such a beautiful creature and how dangerous it was to think of it. I wanted to… I think of how it could unbalance me, how it would leave me sad, how it would be best if we continued with the friend zone thing. I get in the car and he starts driving. It's raining.

The rain brought me, the rain took me away. Inside me, the sun and moon shine, regardless of the heavy clouds. I just shudder to remember, but I digress and the reader needs to understand: there is the writer's fear of not telling his story with a verisimilitude. You see, fiction tries to imitate the real; But when the real looks like an invention, you have to be careful that words do not break like glass, cutting off my hands, my chest, my soul... Blood only on paper, like ink that is pumped through my heart and dances to every corner of my body. Do you listen to the nymphs of inspiration? They laugh like mischievous children, delighted with the effects that cause me to think about him.

As I drive, I see the story drawing inside me. That the reader does not confuse the times, the line is very sharp and at any moment it can overflow the emotions. When our kingdoms merged, the timeline was no longer linear and the space became one – the map is redrawn and the compass always points to us. The distance seems nothing at all, and at the same time it causes a tightness in the chest, as if at any moment I would stop breathing. By opening myself to the universe, to the good things in life, I have also become more vulnerable. I was infected by his love and it spread to all the cells of my body, dominating me inside and out, near and far, mind and heart.

I had my eyes wide open. I need to make sure I'm here or I can crash at any minute. My mind insists on traveling to him and sometimes I get the feeling that I am there and that I can see through his golden eyes. It's just the small price you pay for letting your soul touch another… His fragments are scattered all over me and I gave you the scrawl of the memoir of a novel that wanted to be a short story, hoping that everything would not end in drama or novella. In our pact, my writing wanted to marry his art and immortalize in the universe. It is as if we had every opportunity to unite us, we would hold hands and run in the same direction. Where will this trail lead us? It does not matter, as long as we're together.