In this space I want to offer you some of the texts of my own creation. They are stories that one day arose in my head and that I want to share with you. I hope that we meet among the characters, share experiences, experiences.

DREAMS

I look out the window. She is still there, inhospitable, ramshackle. Broken, cracked by the passage of time, by absences. From here I smell his loneliness, his urine, his sadness. Then no; then you could breathe in their scent, of life, of smiles, of unexpected visitors, of stories. Even so, it stands firm. He waits tirelessly for that bus that one day showed me exuberant women who wore blue high heels.
My memory moves. To the club. Dark and cheerful. Exact dichotomy. There I would come, adolescent and poor, looking for some extra money for the reduced pension that my mother received. Upon entering, he greeted Antonio, a young dark-haired man who always smoked Celts without a mouthpiece. Sometimes, just to see how I would smile, he would buy me a pack. The other employees, busy as they were, never paid attention to my presence.

REDDISH EXCITATION

I come home exhausted, exhausted. Too hot for a winter night. All I want is to rip off these clothes I bought to seduce you. I enter the house imagining that you will wait for me leaning on the kitchen bench with that freedom and elegance that the years give you.
I see you. I smile.
I direct my steps to the room. I undress slowly, while enjoying the coolness of the ground. The dress falls down my legs brushing the skin. The heels end up in a secluded place. I open the closet.
I put on a tiny nightgown.
I already think about how I will feel when I hold you in my hands, when I taste you on my lips, when I notice your bitterness on my tongue, on my palate.
I'm coming for you.
I take out the knife and hold you in my hands.
The reddish color of your interior slides through my mouth. My tongue collects the last drops of your essence.

ABSENT LOOKS

The text that you have below comes from the rehearsal of a theatrical project carried out by the Teatro de lo Inestable de Valencia company in 2013.

Absent glances, missing presences, confused movements, thoughts that do not allow thinking, changes, small changes, big changes, another look, an indication, a smile, a laugh, a yawn, a delay, a look straight ahead, a hug from backs, compose, decompose, search alone, search alone, a mark, a tick? a foot, an imaginary shower, an imagined shower, a fear, the waiting, your presence, absent glances, shared madness, democratic lies , democracy interrupted, sobs in silence, I remember moments, confessed secrets, shudders that shake, silences that are heard, pregnant women on a mobile, pregnant women who open ... absent glances.

PERENNIAL GOODBYE

(To Paula)

I am sitting in front of Clara. I don't know who made the coffee we're drinking. Perhaps, while she was going up in the elevator, I have put the coffee pot. I do not remember. I look at her slowly. She's wearing the green dress I bought her for her birthday. She is talking to me, although I don't quite understand what about. I have stopped listening to her. I just want to see her smile in that dress; It seems to me that this is the first time that he has put it on. Clara has noticed my absence, because she asks me if I am listening to her. I answer yes, although it is a lie. She, then, tells me that I have to get over my dad, which has been a long time. And I tell him that yes, that he is right, but that forty years is a lifetime. Time to time, I just answer him.

However, I am sure that these gaps, these gaps, this losing memory in the past is something else. It is not the first time that it happens to me and it scares me.

All this has happened to me since Antonio is not with me. Before, when there were two of us, my mind did not fly to other places. I simply lived in the present, being next to each other, enjoying our Clara who had grown up and started a new life, in another house, just as we did forty years ago. But since Antonio left, nothing is the same. The days are long in the huge living room of an empty house. The nights become a heavy silence; a silence that I cannot drown with the murmur of the television.

That's why I'm like this, even if I don't tell Clara. I often get confused and, sometimes, I find myself in places that I don't know how I got to. The first time it happened to me I was in the supermarket aisle. It seemed to me, then, that I woke up from a dream and did not know what I was doing there or what I had gone to buy. At first I wanted to fool myself into thinking that they were things of age, of past suffering, but now I know not; I know something else is hiding here.

Clara pulls me out of my thoughts when she stands up. I look at her again. He says that he is leaving, that he has to pick up Julia from the nursery and that he will be back tomorrow. I smile at her and tell her to be calm, that everything is fine.

Although everything is going wrong.

I sit on the brown sofa that we acquired when we moved to this city. I remember Antonio and I laughing happily, while caressing the prominent belly that guarded our daughter. We finally had a house in which to love each other and in which to make love without my parents listening to us. Because before, before we bought it, we slept in the same room that I had used since my childhood.

Antonio and I didn't have money for a house or a wedding, but since we both wanted to be together, we got married. What did it matter where to live. However, after a few years, with our Clara about to be born, we decided that we had to leave, create a new home.

I keep in my memory all those years with Antonio, with Clara. All three on this sofa, in the dining room, in the kitchen. The three of them playing in bed until it was too late even for a Sunday. I remember all those days as if they happened hours ago. I can draw every smile, every kiss, every conversation. I can draw in my memory when there were three of us; and I happy.

But for a few months, nothing has been the same. There are gaps in my head that I can't put together. Dark ones in my brain that give me fear, panic, anguish.

RENÉ

War stories

I wake up feeling someone's touch on me. Everything is dark. Two people touch me; I know, because one of the hands is soft like Margot's; the other seems much more robust. I don't really know what they do with me. The woman's hand caresses me for a few minutes. I try to speak, question them, but the words don't come out of my mouth. I don't hear anything around me either. Everything is silent.

Everything is silent and dark.

I focus on the smell that this place exudes. It smells of blood, of putrefaction. Perhaps I am in a field hospital, although I do not hear the other soldiers screaming in pain. Some comrades, some of those who were injured, told me what it was like to be in a place like this: screaming, pleading, soldiers praying to die that same day. Nothing is heard here. But this place is not the battlefield. There are no women's hands there. They will have hurt me. Maybe he's almost dead. Or prisoner; I really couldn't bear it. If I am a prisoner, I would rather die. Hopefully it doesn't pass today. Hopefully this awakening is the prelude to death.

Again that woman's hand. I move restlessly on what I think is a stretcher and I feel someone holding me by the shoulders. I feel a sharp pain. Scream. I can't hear myself. I need to know what is happening, what has happened, where I am. War. He was fighting the Germans. He fired, sometimes without looking. The important thing was to kill them and avenge my battle brothers.

I am twenty years old and have seen many friends die. So many that I have stopped counting them.

I don't want friends here anymore.

I bring to mind the memory of Margot. I miss her so much ... I remember our childhood, when we played in the courtyard of the house in Paris. My memory has not died. I hope it doesn't go off; I hope he is with me until I disappear. Poor Margot. He won't get over my loss. We only have each other. It has always been like that, since we were children, because father was always working and mother ... Mother was not.

I like to remember those years when mother and I would go for a walk every afternoon on the Champs-Elysées. I was still a child then and did not know what pain was. There we met with father. Of those days, I can see her smile when she saw us approach and how she kissed mother on the lips before taking me in her arms. On occasion, I even asked him if he loved her more. He would pinch my nose and say no.

Although I knew he was cheating on me.

When she died nothing was the same again. Father stopped laughing. He spent his days crammed into his room or office and rarely cradled Margot when she cried. Father hired a governess so he could disappear longer. Meanwhile, I locked myself in my room and cried until I fell exhausted thinking how much I missed mother. In those days I began to hate Margot unborn. His arrival had been too many changes.

As a father, I didn't go near his bassinet either.

At seven months after her birth, while we were eating at the table, Margot babbled a kind of ma-ma-ma. I can still see the father's expression. I felt so sorry for him that the only thing I could think of to tell him was that mother was dead because of him. Father got up from the table and came to me. I thought he was going to hit me. However, he picked me up, looked at me, and told me that it was not Margot's fault, that God had chosen mother to be with him.

Then, full of rage, I yelled at him that I hated God for it. Father told me that he, sometimes, too, but that we had to be strong. Although neither of us were. He still ignored Margot, never picked her up, never smiled at her. All he was allowed to do was spend hours and hours in the office.

I began to think that, along with mother, father had also died. And that Margot was the one who should have died, who should have disappeared; because that way, father, mother and I would be happy. Just like we were before it came.

It was all his fault.

Until one hot morning in July 1904, when I was playing in the living room, Margot stood up, stretched her arms, and came straight to me. I can still hear her laugh as she took her first steps. He staggered from side to side with his arms raised as if to maintain his stability. It was the first time I had walked. Then, while I was looking at her smiling, she lost her balance. I held her tight in my arms. She laughed in amusement at that feat. His green eyes were watching me. I laughed with her. I stood up and hugged her.

That day I stopped hating her.

Amelie wakes me up. She is one of the many war nurses who attend to us. He offers me the medication, which I take very slowly. I still have no strength in my right arm and my left arm is still immobilized. Like my leg, which gets worse every day. I have been lying on this table for two weeks and I am not getting better. I still don't hear anything. The doctor comes to visit me: "Little by little, little by little," he says, looking into my eyes. I do not know what that means. That I will get back on my feet? What will I speak again? That I will die little by little?

That is what I wish for. I haven't seen what that grenade did to me, but I know my face is shattered. That was why he couldn't see. They had put bandages on all my wounds. Amelie comes every day to heal me, but I notice a great unease on her face. That is why I think I am dying. Like my companions. At all hours I see stretchers pass by with dead men, men destroyed by war. I wish they could give me a medication that would make me sleep. I have no strength left to fight. If that is my future, let it arrive as soon as possible and everything disappears, let it become dark in my head and I no longer wake up. I would like to fall asleep and die. That is the only thing I wish for now. Die. Never see Amelie's face again; his decomposed face when he approaches me and sees the horror.

Poor Margot. It's the only thing I feel like dying for, for her. For not being able to look into his green eyes. I'd like to see them before I die. Just once. It would be enough for me to rest easy. Later, if you want, you can throw me into a mass grave. I do not mind. At least I'll be with other soldiers and Margot won't have a place to cry. So you will forget sooner. And father. Yet another loss to bear. Maybe if I had listened to him. Maybe if he hadn't come ... But now it's too late to regret it. The only thing I ask of our God is to take me, to take me with him and with mother. Rest. Stop suffering. To be able to erase the horror from my head.

Amelie returns to my side with a new doctor. He gives me a thorough review. Look closely at my face as he talks to her. I don't know what they are talking about. Then he looks me in the eye and asks me to speak. I get to make some guttural sounds, or so I think, because that's what resonates in my head. I look like a newborn child, although I can think, remember and feel. The rest, I think, was turned off when I fell on the battlefield. He and Amelie smile. I do not know what that means. Perhaps I have spoken more than my brain imagines. They look at my arms. I manage to squeeze his hand tightly and he smiles again. The left remains motionless. It's up to my leg. Their faces, then, no longer express the same joy. They are worried. Amelie walks away and returns to another doctor. They check my left leg again. Any. Neither do I feel it. They move me, now, right. I manage to bend my knee with help. They turn left. They look at me and shake their heads.

The second doctor leaves and returns with two soldiers. They transfer me. I don't know where we are going. I don't know what they want to do with me. They enter a room that smells different. I don't notice that rotten smell here. I think I'm in an operating room. In an operating room of a field hospital. Amelie walks over to me. He squeezes my hand and whispers something I can't hear. There is a tremendous noise in my head, like a constant buzzing.

I wake up alone. I keep still. My body hurts. I don't know how long I stay like this, without thinking. Finally a nurse comes to see me. Smile. I guess that's good. I do not know. Amelie appears from behind. He smiles too. You are safe. We had to cut off your leg. You will live I try to get my arm there. Touch my leg. I get nervous. Scream. Amelie tries to calm me down, but there's nothing I can do anymore. Let me die, I beg you. I don't want to be mutilated. I don't want to live trapped in a chair. I do not want. I do not want.

I cry. I cry like a little child. I cry from the anguish, fear and grief. Grief of this disfigured body. I do not want to return home. I don't want to be seen like this. I'd rather die. That they can't see me. That they remember me as the René that I was. Young René.

Now I understand why they pray. Why do you pray to die.