“Me voy”

Un nudo en el estómago, la ropa que te apesta a sudor aunque no haga calor y un absurdo tembleque en la voz que provoca una encarnizada lucha entre tus neuronas: “-¿Estás nerviosa? -Pero, ¿a qué vienen los nervios? -No pasa nada. -Claro que pasa”. Y te viene otra vez el pestazo. Luego una frase, “sin vaselina”: “Me voy”. Silencio. Ya es oficial. Y todos los días, semanas y meses desde que sabías que abandonabas el último año de tu vida, se te vienen encima.

“Me voy”. La nicotina no ralentiza el torrente de endorfinas que libera escuchar esas dos palabras en voz alta. Te entra la gula, de todo: carbohidratos, tabaco, billetes de avión, vino, cháchara. Lo quieres todo, en grandes dosis y ya. “Me voy”. Y parece que ya te has ido. En realidad te fuiste hace tiempo y es ahora cuando sientes un vacío, el que provoca no tener respuesta, el que cambia radicalmente la conversación:

-Tienes que salir ya de la isla.

-Estoy fuera.

I keep having dreams
 Of pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylan
 Of people wrapped up tight in the things that will kill them
 Of being trapped in a lift plunging straight to the bottom
 Of open seas and ways of life we've forgotten
 I keep having dreams 
Amy worked in a bar in Exeter
 I went back to her house and I slept beside her
 She woke up screaming in the middle of the night
 Terrified of her own insides
 Dreams of pirate ships and Patty Hearst
 Breaking through a life over rehearsed
 She can't remember which came first
 The house, the home or the terrible thirst
 She keeps having dreams 
And on the worst days
 When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tonnes
 She's got her cowboy boots and car keys on the bed stand
 So she can always run
 She can get up, shower and in half an hour she'd be gone
I keep having dreams of things I need to do
 Of waking up and not following through
 But it feels like I haven't slept at all
 When I wake to a silence and she's facing the wall
 Posters of Dylan and of Hemingway
 An antique compass for a sailor's escape
 She says you just can't live this way
 And I close my eyes and I never say
 I'm still having dreams
And on the worst days
 When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tonnes
 I sleep with my passport
 One eye on the back door
 So I can always run
 I can get up, shower and in half an hour I'd be gone
And come morning
 I am disappeared
 Just an imprint
 On the bed sheets
And by the roadside
 With my thumb out
 A car pulls up
 And Bob's driving
 And so I climb in
 We don't say a word
 As we pull off
 Into the sunrise
 And these rivers
 Of tarmac
 Are like arteries
 Course the country
 We are blood cells
 Alive in
 The blood stream
 And beating heart of the country
 We are electric
 Pulses
 In pathways
 Of the sleeping soul of the country
 We are electric
 Pulses
 In the pathway
 Of the sleeping soul of the country
 (We are electric)
 The sleeping sould of the country

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