Autismo Adulto

  You laugh, my son, at nothing, at everything, And I wonder. Where are you, my son, when I need you here? Where is that incredibly pure consciousness, That breaks TVs and draws on walls? What do I do with your heart, to make sure, That Papa loves you madly? That I would give everything, my life. My consciousness… So that yours is there, when I look at you. I want to see you, my son. Not just sometimes. I want to see myself reflected in your beautiful eyes. As if looking at my soul. Know that Papa sees you. I feel you, my little one. I feel you through the void. Through the absence of your words. I know you live in an Odyssey. I know you fight with your barriers. I see you battling your demons. Every day. When you get frustrated. When you don’t understand what you feel, And your body finds relief in “Jumping.” I know, it is not and will not be easy. I know you didn’t ask to be born this way. Even though it’s all you know. You distance yourself from what is different Because you are not

  The Journey of a Stray Bullet The stray bullet heads towards its target. Its intention is to pierce. To wound. To kill. There is no way to justify its path. It always travels straight towards its goal. It will not deviate. Aim. Fire. The bullet is released. And in a surreal time loop, the pain of piercing the victim’s heart repeats over and over. The relativity of time. That bullet. It lingers. You can count the centuries it takes to pass through your heart. Your soul. You know that at the end of the road, you will most likely die. But you already want it to be over. You don’t want to be a spectator of your own death. You would rather cry for the death of others. But instead, the gift life gives you is to witness your departure, your exit from this world. Second by second. The longest seconds in the universe. You wonder while you wait. What happened? What did I do to deserve this spectacle of death? Pain? And loss? Where was mercy when you needed your dose?  Every millimeter of advan

La Bala Perdida La bala perdida se va hacia su blanco. Es su intención perforar. Herir. Matar. No hay forma de justificar su trayectoria. Siempre sale en dirección recta hacia su objetivo. No se desviará.  Apunta. Dispara.  La bala sale. Y en una especie de bucle de tiempo surrealista el dolor del traspaso del corazón de la víctima se repite una, y otra vez. Relatividad del tiempo. Esa bala. Se demora. Puedes contar los siglos que dura el que te atraviese el corazón. El alma.  Sabes que al final del camino. Lo más probable es que morirás. Pero ya quieres que salga. No quieres ser observador de tu propia muerte. Preferirías llorar por la muerte de otros. Pero en cambio. El regalo que te da la vida es presenciar tu marcha, tu ida de este mundo. Segundo a segundo. Los más largos del universo.  Te preguntas mientras esperas. ¿Qué fue lo que paso? ¿Qué fue lo que hice para ser merecedor de este espectáculo de muerte? ¿Dolor? ¿Y perdida? ¿Dónde estaba la misericordia cuando te hacía falta tu