sábado, 31 de março de 2012

The Bridge

A long time ago there used to be a bridge here.

(That is because there was a lake, too.)

In the nights it was cold and dark and, in a word, for all that matters, it was dark.

I would bring there some kind of bottle of some alcoholic thing hidden in my jacket that sometimes was too hot for the streets, but never for the bridge, and would drink while looking at the reflections of everything, specially the trees, on the surface of the lake. I didn't like to look at the reflections of the city because that would defeat the purpose.

I would rest my chin on my left hand and slowly drink.

I would drink the whole bottle, but I'd do it slowly.

And what I call thinking would be more like not thinking in a look-like-thinking sorta way.

Today, there isn't a bridge anymore.

And I turn on the television and drink.

I don't watch it, that would defeat the purpose. I just drink.

Actually I'm not sure there's a purpose to it anymore.

I don't look like I'm thinking.

I drink fast.