Last night, an old enemy knocked at my door, very violently so, neither hiding his face nor disguising his voice.
He smelled of moist walls, and of old, cheap wood; of rotting hope and dreams past due. He carried a bag, his intention was to leave it inside of my home, where I struggle to be born.
This insidious gift was a generous serving of the harvest he can no longer bear, as it’s more abundant than he expected and more devastating than he would ever anticipate. This fruit and its maggots are the death of every winged creature and the doom of every child who struggles to live inside the likes of me.
For a moment, I stretched my hand to turn the doorknob, for destruction is far easier than the journey ahead; for there’s a foe to blame and a poison to explain to myself and then others so they can later explain it to me again. For I am tired, and there’s a wild abyss ahead, and I could be the hero or just one more of the dead, in the womb of fate. For it seems safer dying at home and let it happen so, that it seems the thing most would call the way of man.
Then I stopped, and I screamed with hatred and violence, and pain: “Accursed, go away! For there’s a land beyond the abyss and a torch to lead the way, for the glory of the hero is also the glory of the dead he finds in his way, they’re the bricks that lay the path of the brave, and their blood will never go to waste. Away with your living carcass and your prudent mask, for you who claimed to be wise, are the tomb of the unborn hero and the thief of every precious gift of light”.
Josué Vargas – 2022