Intimately

"One of the supposed questions proposed by the modern thinkers is at what point did humans actually stop listening each other. There are those who answer that in reality,  people have never done it, they only listen to themselves.  However, there are some realists who manage to do it,  and hence there are songs, poems and paintings.  In fact, someone wold to say that this is intimate and deep, selfish. Not if the creation is understood, and the copy, same if it is popular, it shakes many intimately.  He did not recognise his words and neither could he remember what he traced seconds before in the white page.  The candle was extinguished in a warm night. There was no clear sky, and only a bright blanket of clouds suggested the great full moon in the firmament. - August - he said at the same time that he had the last drink of beer. After a deep sigh. He left the glass on the table and went out to the balcony to see the part of the animated city that corresponded to him. A couple had sex on the corner, in. which the streetlight was flickering, dying out the same time. A little further on, at "the point", the guitars, drums and laughter of the happy workers, free women and not so free with the old songs reminded him that he was in the Caribbean, even if he could not see the sea. He looked a little more at the couple who stood panting, moving almost to the rhythm of those songs. He returned to the interior and with the last shine of light of the candle, he saw her sleeping covered whit that old sheet leaving her breast out. - Yes, she is beautiful - he said, knowing that in a few weeks, she would just leave him. As it usually happens in these lands. Another sigh and the light was extinguished.

It seems that all the words have been written and said (or sung). But humans, and not necessary among generations, the easily forget, hence the importance of memory and the context. History, scholars and pretentious would say,  but the story is written in convenience of an order, so the memories could be legends and stories to confront and to understand. Official and prohibited tales for a convenient human society but not a world. Then, liars take advantage and incidentally, it is given room for conspiracy to simply disturb the possibility of acknowledging the fact. So, the art comes to the rescue more than the archives. She had learned not to silence her orgasms with him. Years later, she still looked intimately in the mirror she was turned on by herself, remembering how many years ago, he ran his lips all over her body, like no other man has wanted to do it. Maybe because he not only desired her, he also loved her. So many years ago, and many men alike over her body, but not inside her. Yes. Sometimes she missed him, but he would never know. She knew, that he always missed her. And despite this despair at times for loved him, the memory and the feeling of superiority in front of him was enough for her.

Words, sounds and traces are the necessary darkness in an illuminated world that does not allow to dream. Feelings and sensations that do not need to be a useful combination to a target: or a consequence or reason, or a causality to entertain or to have a profit in the vogue. A world with too much of light to distinguish silhouettes, smiles and tears. Of course, that noise that does not allow to enjoy moans or shudder with sobs. Or otherwise. He had learned to enjoy a beer at sundown, alone. Without guilt, on Tuesday and with Jim in the background. Five years more - he said aloud, seeing how red turned to violet and the west would bring the rain. Only a little of the Ray's organ remained in the environment. Few seconds. After the silence. A deep guitar and Jim one more time - ... I know the dream, that you're dreamin' of, I know the word that you long to hear, I know your deepest, secret fear... - he accompanied Jim remembering the last time in the stairs with she. Another drink and the beer is finished. There would be no other. The night has come.

In what is believed to be the end, creating can be difficult for many who do not yet find a purpose that persist over time. Or at least in his own time. Desperate helpless people follow rules and fears with frustrations and limitations leading them to mediocrity in profit of the status quo. But, they know how to break the social and convenient spell and it is necessary that others shout it, to calm their cowardice and rage. She fell exhausted on him. Two orgasms and she believed that at least he had gotten his own. She was so sweaty, satisfied and tired that she didn't really care. She had learned herself to be selfish, but her ego and more satisfaction led her to be sure. He didn't care if there was no more sex in the next hours, she'd learned it over the years. Only that he ejaculated and woke up hugging her. Sleeping and sunrise is very different from fucking and disappearing. 

Human well being must be happiness, without being something against intimate joy (in general). It is not a question of having or the possession but of being. Observing and preserving life. Understand and persist as human in the world to guarantee the memory and the permanence of the especies, not of this untenable civilisation. How? First, believing in humans before gods and second, thinking in life more than the profit. The rest of the things, third, four... the rest will be arrive between all humans. And how? Knowledge and fraternity. Real love. He had learned the value of the silence, in the unbearable city. Alone. In spite of the fact that those words that she said to him were repeated all the time: you have not anything new, you haven't said anything new... so many years and only today he thinks, and she? What new did she say? Six years and the silence until this Tuesday night."