Salir en la mañana siempre es duro.

El sueño es persistente para los que dormimos pocas horas.

Necesito descansar.

Un fin de semana desconectado de trabajos, ideas a desarrollar, problemáticas familiares a resolver; y mi cuerpo respondería a los impulsos del deber ansioso.

En la acera, un hombre solo pasea con su perro de pelaje oscuro, llevando una bolsa de excrementos en la mano.

¡Qué bien!

Alguien, respetando el ambiente; aunque luego regrese del mercado cargado de bolsas plásticas que dividen, porción a porción, cada segmento de víveres y antojos que compre.

“Somos discordantes en acciones” -pienso- y dirijo mi atención hacia otra parte.

En la otra acera, un grupo de estudiantes espera ansiosamente la llegada del transporte escolar. -Estoy siendo irónico- Parece que a ninguno le importara estar allí o en otra parte.

Nadie mira a nadie; se hablan, pero las miradas permanecen en sus dispositivos comunicacionales como si de un periódico minutado e informativo de vivencias se tratase.

Hoy la gente no se mira, se presiente.

Se percibe a través del espacio periférico visual o por rutina, pues aceptan, como verdad recurrente, que siempre son y están los mismos.

Estoy seguro de que si un día, alguno de ellos dejase de llegar a la esquina donde se espera el transporte, nadie notaría su ausencia hasta hacer el recorrido, donde el habitual asiento vacío, llamaría la atención de alguno que levante el rostro de la pantalla que florece imágenes en sus manos.

No es mi problema.

Aunque sí sea ya, un problema universal en estudio, que se desarrolla intensamente, aplicándosele a miles de personas, población millonaria, con herramientas metodológicas para verifar lo ya verificable:

El ser humano cambió el contacto físico por la selfie enviada, la caricia por la frase redactada en mezcolanza de idiomas, el saludo, por la imagen repetida de dibujos universalmente usados que reemplazan las expresiones faciales que ya poco se experimentan.

De eso poco o mucho me interesa; no me centra como espejo.

Yo salgo sin aparatos extras al cinturón que sostiene mis pantalones, al reloj semiautomático que se paraliza al quitármelo y al prensa-corbata de oro que me regaló mi abuelo.

Sigo mi camino.

El fuerte sol y el aire suave que llega desde la playa me condicionan a cubrir mis ojos con la mano derecha a modo de visera.

Y al hacerlo, en ademán de manejar prismáticos o binoculares; diviso a una mujer delgada, casi transparente, recostada en el marco de una puerta, en una pared aislada de una callejuela que da al muelle; con la mirada pérdida al fondo; como tratando de adivinar las estructuras existentes en las islas que se visualizan a lo lejos.

Va vestida de rojo.

Su mirada -lo percibo- se cruza con la mía.

Un rostro angelical se describe a lo lejos; pues yo no paso en mi trayecto ni de cerca.

Entonces, sucede algo que me espanta y me sorprende:

Aquella dama hace un micro gesto, apenas perceptible por mi sensorio hiperdotado; radar de emociones del que me jacto y que me permite, en ocasiones, entender lo que el otro está pensando; o eso creo.

¿Es conmigo?

Volteo a todas direcciones,pero mi recorrido luce ausente de otros seres.

Es conmigo.

Algo late en mi interior y me detengo, pues la curiosidad ahora se apodera de mi atención generalmente esquiva. Y así, en un impulso loco y extraño, le devuelvo una sonrisa.

Ella no se inmuta; más, de nuevo, mirando fijamente a mis ojos, otra vez gesticula, apenas percetiblemente.

Estoy a punto de desenvolver mis pasos y acercarme.

Pero la incertidumbre del significado del gesto de la mujer de rojo, transparente visión, me detiene.

Me hace falta conocerla.

Dedicarme unos momentos para sellar un encuentro.

Armar una fantasía que, luego, antes de dormirme, en mi cama, se convierta en historias placenteras.

Pero no me arriesgo.

De pronto, sucede.

Un hombre, de uniforme con camisa también roja, del mismo tono del vestido de la dama, sale de la puerta y se posa frente a la mujer, visión que ha robado mi atención y mis intensos deseos.

La toma con ambas manos, la levanta y, en un movimiento de lateralización inminente, la introduce por la puerta, ocultándola a mi vista.

Una valla de cartón, tamaño casi natural, de una mujer, cuyo vestido recreaba el logo de una tienda de ropa:

Marcia Rojo -Boutique-

Decido, avergonzado, alucinado y, ya en solitario, en medio de la calle, colocarme los anteojos y acercarme solo un poco, unos metros.

Efectivamente, era la puerta lateral de alguna tienda que no había percibido anteriormente.

Debo pensar.

Escarbar en mí, emociones reprimidas, deseos inconscientes; buscar en mis deficitarios momentos de afectos; debo…

Pero se hace tarde.

Luego revisaré mis interioridades, disiparé la vergüenza del momento; y, hasta tal vez, me permita autoculparme por necio; devaluar mi autoestima, acrecentarme defectos.

Así que, sigo camino al terminal de pasajeros terrestre, mientras me digo en voz alta:

Debo ver al oftalmólogo; no hay remedio; y al psiquiatra, si lo permite el presupuesto.

Emilio Ríos – Venezuela

@emiliorios

Dedicatoria:

Durante semanas he tratado de buscar la forma de plasmar mis escritos en esta comunidad de @es-literatos; y hoy comienzo con esta nueva iniciativa llamada Imaginaciones Mías, como una forma de redactar lo que veo, lo que pienso y lo que el entorno me hace sentir; entrelazando todo, con historias que nacen del ciudadano común.

Por eso, le doy las gracias y le dedico -Es una promesa que me hice- este espacio a @pedrobrito2004 y a @josemalavem por inspirarme a escribir de esta forma espontánea, sencilla y cuidando mucho las palabras.

A @irvinc y a @ylich -Feliz 5to aniversario de éxitos en #Hive- por la persistencia y el empeño en hacer creaciones de valor en la red de #Hive a pesar del tiempo.

A @lecumberre por enseñarme que siempre es el momento para desarrollar y luchar por nuestros sueños e ideales.

Y a @miriannalis y @damarysvibra por mostrarme el amor hacia esta inmensa plataforma y sembrar en mí el deseo de la búsqueda y del aprendizaje continuo.

My Imaginations. First Tale: The Woman in Red or The Inner Life of the Casual Passerby

Pixabay-Ractapopulous, edited in Paint

Writing texts can be a great dream, a compensated enterprise and even a delicate and very effective form of spiritual relief.

The hours invested in searching for themes that reinforce personal brands are compensated with followers and affection for your expositions of reasons, principles and existential solutions.

Selling always entails a great investment of time in research, organization and deployment of efforts.

But:

What happens if, you write the moment, the daily living, the constant and fluid manifestation of your persistent and operative thoughts that act as internal stimuli located on the rooftop and that shock the whole interior of the great machinery that is the body?

Emotionally, it is a drain.

Exponentially, it is the description of the scenery in which we operate.

A stream of ideas that help us understand who we are, how we see what we see, and even determine the value of others in a world where no one is alone.

Thus, loneliness, as a parasitic sensation, rides on every corner as a vehicular matter of those who, anonymously, walk the streets.

Pixabay- Woem y Clker-Free-Vector-Image in composition, edited in Paint

The woman in red or the inner life of the casual passerby

Going out in the morning is always hard.

Sleep is persistent for those of us who sleep only a few hours.

I need to rest.

A weekend disconnected from work, ideas to develop, family problems to solve; and my body would respond to the impulses of anxious duty.

On the sidewalk, a man alone strolls with his dark-coated dog, carrying a bag of excrement in his hand.

How nice!

Someone, respecting the environment; even if he later returns from the market laden with plastic bags that divide, portion by portion, every segment of groceries and cravings he buys.

"We are discordant in actions" -I think- and turn my attention elsewhere.

On the other sidewalk, a group of students anxiously awaits the arrival of school transportation. -I'm being ironic- none of them seem to care whether they are there or elsewhere.

Nobody looks at anybody; they talk to each other, but their gazes remain on their communicational devices as if it were a minute and informative newspaper of experiences.

Today people do not look at each other, they sense each other.

They perceive each other through the visual peripheral space or by routine, because they accept, as a recurrent truth, that they are always the same people.

I am sure that if one day, one of them would stop arriving at the corner where we wait for transportation, no one would notice their absence until they make the trip, where the usual empty seat, would call the attention of someone who lifts his face from the screen that blooms images in his hands.

It is not my problem.

Although it is already a universal problem under study, which is being intensively developed, being applied to thousands of people, a population of millions, with methodological tools to verify what is already verifiable:

The human being changed the physical contact for the selfie sent, the caress for the phrase written in a mixture of languages, the greeting, for the repeated image of universally used drawings that replace the facial expressions that are no longer experienced.

Little or much of that interests me; it does not focus me as a mirror.

I go out without extra gadgets to the belt that holds my pants, to the semi-automatic watch that stops when I take it off and to the gold tie-press that my grandfather gave me.

I continue on my way.

The strong sun and the soft air coming from the beach condition me to cover my eyes with my right hand as a visor.

And in doing so, in a gesture of handling binoculars; I spot a thin woman, almost transparent, leaning against the frame of a door, on an isolated wall of an alley facing the pier; with her gaze lost in the background; as if trying to guess the existing structures on the islands that can be seen in the distance.

She is dressed in red.

Her gaze -I perceive it- crosses mine.

An angelic face is described in the distance; for I do not pass by it, not even close.

Then, something happens that frightens and surprises me:

That lady makes a micro gesture, barely perceptible by my hyper-endowed sensorium; radar of emotions of which I boast and which allows me, at times, to understand what the other is thinking; or so I think.

Is it with me?

I turn in all directions, but my path seems absent of other beings.

It is with me.

Something beats inside me and I stop, for curiosity now seizes my usually elusive attention. And so, in a crazy and strange impulse, I smile back at her.

She doesn't flinch; more, again, staring into my eyes, she again gestures, barely perceptibly.

I am about to unwrap my steps and approach.

But the uncertainty of the meaning of the gesture of the woman in red, transparent vision, stops me.

I need to get to know her.

I need to dedicate a few moments to seal a meeting.

To make up a fantasy that, later, before falling asleep, in my bed, will turn into pleasant stories.

But I don't take the risk.

Suddenly, it happens.

A man, in uniform with a red shirt, the same shade as the lady's dress, comes out of the door and stands in front of the woman, a vision that has stolen my attention and my intense desires.

He grabs her with both hands, lifts her up and, in an imminent sideways movement, slips her through the door, hiding her from my view.

A cardboard fence, almost life-size, of a woman, whose dress recreated the logo of a clothing store:

Marcia Rojo -Boutique-.

I decided, embarrassed, hallucinated and, now alone, in the middle of the street, to put on my glasses and get a little closer, a few meters.

Indeed, it was the side door of a store that I had not noticed before.

I must think.

To dig in myself, repressed emotions, unconscious desires; to search in my deficient moments of affections; I must....

But it is getting late.

Then I will review my interiorities, dissipate the shame of the moment; and, perhaps, even allow myself to blame myself for foolishness; devalue my self-esteem, increase my defects.

So, I continue on my way to the ground passenger terminal, while saying out loud to myself:

I must see the ophthalmologist; there is no remedy; and the psychiatrist, budget permitting.

Emilio Ríos – Venezuela

@emiliorios

Dedication:

For weeks I have been trying to find a way to capture my writings in this community of @es-literatos; and today I start with this new initiative called Imaginations of Mine, as a way to write what I see, what I think and what the environment makes me feel; intertwining everything, with stories that are born from the common citizen.

For this reason, I thank and dedicate -I made a promise to myself- this space to @pedrobrito2004 and @josemalavem for inspiring me to write in this spontaneous, simple and careful way.

To @irvinc and @ylich -Happy 5th anniversary of success on #Hive- for persistence and persistence in making valuable creations in the #Hive network despite the time.

To @lecumberre for teaching me that it's always the time to develop and fight for our dreams and ideals.

And to @miriannalis and @damarysvibra for showing me the love towards this immense platform and sowing in me the desire for continuous search and learning.

Reconocimientos / Acknowledgements

• Barras separadoras y logo de An English Versión editad en Paint, de:
  Separator bars and And English Version logo edited in Paint, by:
  Pixabay-Clker-Free-Vector-Images

• Dibujo final de agradecimiento, editado en Paint, de:
  Final thank-you drawing, edited in Paint, by:
  Pixabay- Clker-Free-Vector-Images

• Les pido que apoyemos a nuestras comunidades amigas hispanas:
  I ask you to support our Hispanic friendly communities:

@la-colmena: https://vote.hive.uno/@la-colmena

@aliento: https://vote.hive.uno/@aliento

@cervantes: https://peakd.com/me/witnesses

• Apoya con tu delegación a @es-literatos La información aquí:
  Support @es-literatos with your delegation. Information here:

Tu apoyo para la literatura en Hive | Your support for Literature on Hive

• Y muy respetuosamente, el apoyo a las propuestas de @curangel @entropia @hivebuzz @arcange @visualblock @rutablockchain @bdcommunity @mayvileros @cervantes @r2cornell @ocd y Proyecto Enlace @enlace
  And very respectfully, the support for the proposals of @curangel @entropia @hivebuzz @arcange @visualblock @rutablockchain @bdcommunity @mayvileros @cervantes @r2cornell @ocd and Proyecto Enlace @enlace

• Sígueme, también, en:
  Follow me, also, at:

@emjorigonHIVE