If it be your will

Stomachs covered in knitwear, leathery feet. You wanted to lie down and pretend for a second that this life wasn’t, isn’t yours. A rock has planted itself in your mind; heavy and cool to the touch, pulling you down into what feels like drunk, into what feels light-headed and uncertain. Breathing is difficult, and it takes a thousand different heartbeats to inhale, exhale. Those round leaves throw themselves across these straightened roads, anyplace is better than the sidewalk, surely. Iced tea and blue blood, waiting for a couple of hours to pass before you can admit defeat and crawl back through the residential outskirts and sleep, sleep, sleep. If you sit here long enough, looking at this tree in front of the speckled window, perhaps every single leaf will let go. They seem to fall off in twos and threes every time you look up, so surely there cannot be so many left on the branches that it will take days longer, a week.

Ella Frances Sanders, en su blog. Lo tituló “Flash fiction”. 

Su título me ha recordado a aquella serie que murió por explosión. Flash forward. La idea era buena: un día, la mayoría de los habitantes de la tierra sufren un desmayo y ven unos segundos de su futuro. A partir de los fragmentos, un grupo intenta reconstruir lo que ocurrió y encontrar a los causantes. 

Cachitos inconexos. O no. Trocitos de pasado, de presente, de ¿futuro?. Y luego leo esto y me acuerdo de ti.