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| Buenavista coffee beans, dried on the ground |
Days begin with a cup of Buenavista coffee in a small tienda artesenal and some empanadas to bite on. I look for a place in the shade and write. Today, I work on my novel again, after many weeks. I’m a bit worried I can’t repair the narrative anymore and the project might go down the drain. So be it. Nothing is lost. All the words will remain on their spots in the book, the only thing that has changed is my judgement of it. And that judgement is not even important, I mean, not as important as yours. You are free. You can dance on the ashes of my freedom that I am burning away with all the passion long years of submission can squeeze out of a mind.
That night, I dreamt about mosquitos in a field hospital. Two patients shared a room and before they sleep the doctor makes his final round and advises them to use the mosquito net. One of the patients listens to the doc and carefully straps the mosquito net to his mattress. He falls asleep underneath his impermeable cover. The other patient doesn’t listen to the doc and sleeps without the net. After a few minutes, the mosquitos start zooming in through the window. A few at first, as if they were pathfinders, but very quickly a thick black stream of insects burst into the small ward. The patient that has not listened to the doc is eaten alive, buried under a big black heap of insects. The other patient sleeps like a baby. The next morning, all the mosquitos have left. On one of the beds now lies a skeleton. “We should buy a second net” the doctor grumbles as he strokes with his hand through his grey beard.