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River. Oh river! Flow gentle for me ‘cause such precious cargo you bear. Don’t you know somewhere he can be free? River deliver him there!
That’s the song that Richard heard the day he died. Only the remaining hope of life somewhere else. Where his soul wouldn’t be “coursed” he would say. But who is to judge nowadays how your souls is.
Only the desire of expecting someone, something, is what kept him alive. Staying alive for each other, that’s what Clarissa would say. Stay alive for each other is not living, granting a power in someone else that hasn’t had a choice but to live, is not excuse to chain someone to his soul. Why is always the soul?
Looking at things the way they are. Boring. Looking at things the way he sees. Without understanding. Where do all these ideas come from? How was he raised to amaze at such bizarre things? Thinking such things of life, that when he says it out loud they laugh, or they stare at him with that look in their eyes, the look that means: You are strange, I don’t see you as someone like me, someone human. It hurts.
I guess that always happens to people, but not as much as it happens to Richard. Always that look. Always admiring the tree, not the sculpture. Always the tears in someone else, always the smiles… some people’s smiles Those that you can see that special angle of lips and chick. So unique. Makes you smile too.
But then those days. Those usual tragic-drama days. When people yell, get mad or sad. And somehow, some sick logic twist gives it’s answer: It’s your fault. You said something, you heard something, you stayed quiet, you stare, you wink, grin… you be. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to make someone’s life interesting, enjoyable, exciting or calm, they always end hurt by something, then again, that “you did”.
Will it happen when he dies? Will they be happy? Would life stop giving those sordid twists that won’t get him to get the girl, her to keep the girl, them the boy, her the husband, him the dog, them the money, those the sex… or just the hope… the hope.
Then the silence. No answer as always. Or many answers which he cannot read. Just the feelings forever loud (which is maybe the problem). The guilt eternally a coté . The voice inside your heart saying: you did wrong. Always the years, the months, the weeks… always the hours.
Silence.
And then the remaining question: Would she be angry if I died?
Then Clarissa arrives.

Ya pueden atacar con sus: eh? what? qué fumaste? etc, etc, etc