Apathy is nothing more than my way of bringing here everything that we prefer to keep in corners that no one cleans, that no one moves, that you know are there but we ignore.
So then, apathy more than the blowing that clears you from the forgotten corner is also considered guilty when you navigate lightly through the room, colliding with whatever crosses your path and fragmenting you spread everywhere.
When I find myself invaded, already inside a drawer, fearful and resigned to the next attack disguised as a blow, it happens.
It happens that you fly over me if I close my eyes, in the form of memories, where your eyelids were pressed in reflex supplying me with satisfaction, your sad face and gestures lacking in manhood.
Missing you is like a genuine appearance of pain lodged in the upper third of my body, an appearance that springs up in tears, that nestles desperate screams and mother's curses between my teeth.
I express this not so that you will return, or wish to be here, but rather to make my notebook aware that you will visit only when necessary, only when you need to revive me and the stripes, your skin stuck to the bone, the exaggeration of your haircut and your intermittent love.
Intermittently I let myself feel guided by habit and now you are erased from here, ending my whim, to return there, where you always belonged.
My apathy is nothing more than your cab to my feelings, and loving you is nothing more than wanting to be apathetic at every moment.
Photography by Cleo Thomasson
I am pursued by a passion for writing but my mind blocks me from pursuing it back.