A limit, not a Horizon

"Stop, to see if it's possible to observe the sunset. Feel it. In how many cities is it still possible to see the horizon? Humans flee to places where they can still see it, both at sunrise and sunset. They are trapped in their boxes, obligations, and desires, citizens only have sleep (and the screen) to be able to see and believe what they feel. How long is the human capable of remaining in front of that call of immensity, if the possibility exists? In the face of continuous silence and inexplicable for me, you cannot know the importance of your monosyllable in response. However, after time, I keep in me, protected, the rest of the fire what I feel. But despite the desire of all those nights and afternoons, all the times opening your body and caressing your sex and breasts face to me to reach your orgasm with my look, you do not understand. Stop, I don't get it.   

The boxes, more and more with fewer windows and small spaces for a bed, because the freedom to see and to sleep is a privilege. A sign of status and sometimes of power, because others guarantee the view over them and they keep the dreams of their oppressors. Yes, they ignore that they can also sleep and dream despite their poverty. And far away from the cities, there are places where the poor can see the horizon just the same. Sometimes, they even make songs. Saturday morning and the bartender loved hearing their stories. Her boyfriend didn't care that she lasted with him for hours after closing listening to him. He didn't have to be jealous of a writer who was getting older and surrounding himself with increasingly exuberant and sensual women. And I did not think that this writer was also bisexual, however, the last stories had been a bit sad and affected the bartender. He was a cheerful man who simply wanted to be a bartender. No more. So that Friday he decided to stay with his boyfriend. And despite the laughs of one of the writer's stories, when the writer said goodbye and left a juicy tip,  they both felt empty, really sad. And they didn't say anything until daylight, they went for a coffee at the kiosk across the street. 

It is impossible to leave the moment with the night because the civilization distractions take care of that. Nevertheless, the rainy morning allows seeing the cities differently: ignoring the non-existence of a horizon and, with open eyes, observing what can be drawn in in reality ignoring the noise and lights of the citizen world. It could be said that it is one of those rare moments of individuality and human freedom. Intimate, not selfish. Justo minutes to feel what without naming it, is worth it. After more than an hour of games and forty-seven minutes of penetration, he had his ejaculation. She was holding back her orgasms, because of earlier fear and not because of staying in sex for hours. Forty-seven minutes, what exactitude! - He said to himself in silence while she, frustrated, direct, and mocking, denied the situation. Ten years ago he would care, but not this afternoon. It was just sex. He listened to her while looking at the relief on the ceiling. A limit, not a horizon. 

People use buzzwords to justify or disguise their tragedy. The worst, it is a tragedy generated by themselves and decisions or acceptances about the immediacy. For survival or for pleasure. Moments to feel some life against the possibility to be alive. Sometimes, a person manages to go beyond resignation (and existence) and that gives for the rest some hope (and envy). Then, that happiness and permanence wear out and simply end up being one more anecdote to justify the day-to-day. But in the moments of the escape observing nothing or distinguishing that the horizon does not exist, it is possible to feel the transcendence as a human. Thirty-one years, two after she had left him, three lovers, a little of money, and once again alone. He actually felt that he had been alone for more than six years. It was something to understand however it is not difficult to explain - he said one time to a woman in his bed. But she didn't want to hear it, just have sex. So it was. She thought of him as much as he thought of her. They were one of these rare human beings who can stay together for life. But she didn't get it. And he understood it too late.  She looked at herself in the mirror, naked: she was marvelous and would continue to be that way for many more years. I just needed to keep it up. But when she saw herself, she remembered how he looked at her. She missed that look. 

Happily, the moments of freedom, simple and personal, happen despite the rules and schedule of the civilization. From minutes to hours, some challenge the system and they are capable to see that there is not a horizon in the city. Nevertheless, they take advantage of the rain to imagine a landscape and a human place, not a citizen agglomeration. In another kind of silence, seeing, feeling, without organized thoughts, only the sensation of life. The coffee gave him that sensation of tranquility, which very few understood. It didn't arouse him or wake him up, he even sometimes took it to fall asleep later on. Other times, many times really, it accompanied his paintings. those moments in which the canvas was simply transformed. It wasn't the wine, nor the taste of her lovers. Just coffee. That morning, before painting her on that canvas, he watched her naked in the bed. Beautiful, dreaming, and he just savored the coffee, it was still very early. It rained. But that was not a limit. The coffee gave him the possibility to feel the necessary horizon to paint. "