The sidereal path remains silent out of respect for the thousands of dead who have left in this 21 due to negligence and forgetfulness, due to the ominous disgrace of constant violence and remain silent to celebrate your loneliness accompanied and accompanied by a walk through narrow streets where Lavapiés is Cuévano returns and the inhabitants sing silences in their languages. Follow silence to turn the schedules and dream that you smile at a statue in a very green meadow in the Philippines at the same time that you look in the mirror at the fleeting happiness of an invented hairstyle, with the exemplary silence of a toothbrush.
Follow silence to seal forever all the mud that disappears as soon as the year 22 dawns, from the novel room or memory classroom when you lived in an endearing utopia with your 62 companions from that room 22 that deserves to be printed at this dawn or continue silence and finally face the novel of a monumental teacher who taught children to read and write not many of two small towns in a time in black and white, that novel that you have been dragging from the moment you hugged the students and the elderly of that adorable teacher who swallowed the dust and gunpowder of an uncivil war to be reborn in Veracruz or continue in silence and put in clean ink all the papers, papers and notebooks that you have accumulated for twenty years to honor the vanished, those who are they disappear because reality is not enough for them … and remain silent at the helm of the desk where the writers who draw write to write the drawings that accompany this weekly column.
Follow the silences of the music that hypnotizes you, those symphonic pauses or sonata fords that are also part of the score, follow the silences of the novels that you reread because those pauses are the breath of each of the authors who silently curdled their pages. I’m talking about the quiet Virginia Woolf in the paragraph with which you try to embrace at least two other authors or editors and that quiet meadow with a white page that Álvaro Mutis populated with a fountain pen or George Orwell while he took care of a rose bush already far from the trenches of the same war where he met that teacher already mentioned here and remains silent before the entire caravan of Righteous with a capital letter that justify the order of the Universe, the syncopation of the stars and the revolving dance of each of the planets. I’m talking about the taxi driver who feels that he survived the attack by an electric centipede named Cóvi and the baker who gives you a blessed loaf because he felt like it and I’m talking about the voice of an old woman who came singing a madrilenian Christmas carol down the street to make a intimate celebration no longer with anyone … Silence continues that there are so many things that no longer deserve to be talked about and because the clear awareness of a new dawn irrevocably confirms the true etymology of the words, the palpable substance of each emotion and that wonderful noise that remains floating in the lips after a kiss and in the renewing moment of hugs.
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George Holan is chief editor at Plainsmen Post and has articles published in many notable publications in the last decade.