Once dead, always dead...

I am sinking in my bed. Yes, the sheets are blue: soft, dreamy, acid blue… I was dead and I got resurrected. I'm floating in my own odorless insipid diffuse self. Yet again, salvation was too close to be real.
I wake up with a rumiation dangling from the weary network of my memories, thoughts and illusions. Was he tall, short, disproportionate, large, compressed, elastic, enlarged, suppressed, extended? Is that his smell carefully hidden in the folds of my bed sheets? is this the color of his eyes suspended in a morning ray pointing at my bed? Is this his cranky voice lingering in the corners of my bed? Was he really here?
We all sometimes welcome someone in our own bed. We think it would help us build up immunity against loneliness. We strip ourselves naked and enjoy a touch on a dissimulated patch of our bare skin. We’ve reached “la petite mort”. Withdrawal syndromes start kicking off before we even realize it. It’s already too late. By our side there is only a corpse ready to be stacked in the closet.
This space is an homage to all those who are killed and kill day after day in their own beds. To all those who continue to dream of getting trapped endlessly in their own beds despite all the hustles of their strangely slow-paced fast-moving lives. Life moving so fast to a point where events turn into one familiar and painful nightmare unfolding endlessly. A nightmare disguised every time in different stats and measurements.
To all those who wish and pray every night for an elevation so they could float forever above the mediocrity of their human condition.
To all those who can still hear their dazzling shadowy prince making his glorious entry through their window's shattered glass even when their sweaty bodies are twisted in an unnatural and humiliating position and a stranger's tongue is stuck somewhere on the crook of their neck.
To all those who mock and defy the strange realities of nature, human nature.
To all those who know how to shrivel up with the dignity of an immaculate angel while holding the weapon of their own crime.
Death is in my bed… © El Matador