The inertia of the Delivery

The inertia of delivery

Meléndez López Teodulo

The country looks haggard, with flabby muscles, breathing hard, his breath lost, with a carelessness that weighs like a sleeping pill.

The country is disjointed, with oxidized bone lace, willing dissipated, with enclaves wandering brain.

There is an atmosphere that choppy breath. It's not just the haze and intense heat that keeps the country and lulled into a sleep alarming. Inertia is a weariness caused a nearly pathological. The country is handed over to the swings, gets carried away and assists the destructive process staring.

The eyes of the country show a loss of vision, a loss, an absence next to final delivery at random, the fall of dice on the table for a destination that it looks impossible to influence.

The country seems to suffer from multiple osteoporosis, paralysis on a wheelchair, abandonment and despair, of automaticity and unconsciousness behavior near a self-induced slumber.

The country suffers from impotence. The country is synonymous with lethargy. The country looks like a terminal patient lying on a hospital bed and waiting for the inevitable. The country no longer try an exercise of will. The country seems to believe that the fates of fortune decided by him and has no other resource that immobilized to the inevitable.

This country is poorly delivered. It perceives the destructive acts with a little regret, with the exhalation of a complaint decreased, with a slight gesture which suggests resignation. This country does sounds like the deaf which suggests he has understood what you said though his brain has processed no more than a stream of disjointed sounds.

This country attending events as if they were distant and not atañesen. The country is delivered, waiting for an election that still look far and will be attended by reflex. The country is not satisfied with doctors and nurses come in its abnormal state jorungarlo and hopes up on the appointed day to vote with the same resignation as the patient is when you bring the ever detestable hospital food.

If the subject stopped his speech appreciated the silence. If the subject launches tirade response grunts who share their immense hall of hospitalizations as a distraction if he had peered through the interstices of the walls of their confinement.

The country is lying on his sick bed. The country is far, far, accustomed to the dose of morphine that keeps you from pain. The country'm sorry, but the country does not mind giving pain, you just leave him there, lying, submissive, surrendered, inert.

The nurses will switch on the television and the country looks with his mouth open. It is not known if he sees or hears, but the distraction and escape he finds enough to kill the hours of its inertia. Until it's time to sleep, one that leads us away from reality, self-absorption that takes a day to sink into unconsciousness at night. When the sun sets between heat and haze, the country is grateful that the day is over. The country wants to reduce noise, the feeling of being awake, the incongruities of everyday semiatención a disgrace.

The country looks like a terminal patient. The country is nothing but a pile of bones and skin waiting for the tipping point. The country has lost all control. The country exists, but distant, disjointed, alien, lost, paralyzed in his sickbed without the temptation to get up, look out the window, go outside, to try a change of external reality that seems to entice more the placid numb.

The country seems to feel that there's a parade. Listen to what appears to be a band with trumpets and cymbals and may, perhaps, we anticipate that carnival, a festival that someone, anyone participating in a festive time that someone outside their plight is dedicated to a celebration noisy.

The country observes the fan blades rotating lazily on his bed. The country does not ask. The country is in pajamas. Not even waiting for Godot because it has not the slightest fucking idea who Samuel Beckett. The country languishes, drowsiness satisfy him, but cut out the loggers, desmalecen, throw down trees and destination.

There's the country. Do not have pity. We will have to keep talking but her ears perceive only guttural noises. Will have to continue putting serum, although perforated veins resemble a fountain. We will have to make to do a tracheotomy to breathe waiting for a reconstructive reaction. There's the country, in the inertia of delivery.

teodulolopezm@yahoo.com