Decadència

Un relat de: Dorian


Es despertar a un nou matí. Sabia que era un nou dia perquè la dona que hi havia a la cadira era diferent a de les nits. La dona llegia alguna revista del cor. El dolor deixava entreveure les seves cruels arpes entre la plaent boira de la medicació. Va sentir el cul mullat, mullat per els seus excrements. El càncer no deixava que res quedés a l'estomac, així que tot el que menjava sortia en poc temps. La dona va veure que era despert, va deixar la revista i va donar-li el bon dia, tot obrint les finestres i aixecant una mica les persianes. El va netejar posant-lo de costat, i va canviar les mantes. En els seus últims dies coneixia mes a aquestes dones que als seus fills. Un cop de tos va ascendir per la seva gola però no podia treure els mocs. La dona el va ajudar a expectorar i va marxar a la cuina per preparar l'esmorzar. Va mirar la ben coneguda habitació. Havia viscut allà des de feia 20 anys i mai va pensar que odiaria cadascun dels objectes que l'ocupaven. La dona va tornar amb una safata amb menjar de malalt. Tot triturat i un iogurt. S'ho va menjar amb delit sense pensar que en dues o tres hores notaria aquella desagradable sensació al seu darrere. El dolor tornava com si algú li piqués a l'estomac amb força. La dona va donar-li la medicació i al poc temps va adormir-se. El dia va passar tal i com testimoniava la llum que entrava per les finestres. Últimament per estones lluitava per l'aire que respirava, essent aquesta batalla l'única que ocupava el seu cap. Durant el dia un dels seus fills va venir, i també algú de l'hospital, tot i que no recordava res del que van fer o dir. Cada inspiració absorbia la resta de mon. Fins que no va haver-hi mes.

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Dorian

201 Relats

102 Comentaris

125086 Lectures

Valoració de l'autor: 9.39

Biografia:
"Milions son condemnats a una encara més fosca condemna que la meva, milions es revolten silenciosament contra el seu destí. Ningú coneix quantes revolucions a banda de les polítiques fermenten en les masses de gent que poblen la Terra."

"...human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doted on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation."

-Currer Bell

"Soc la més eminent de les persones. I la més indigna"

-Mao Zedong

"The art of life is the art of avoiding pain"

-Thomas Jefferson

"It is a curious object of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in it's utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his object."

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

"At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide"

-F.Scott Fitzgerald

"Imanishi se hallaba obsesionado con la idea de que a menos de que llegara pronto para él la destrucción, el infierno de la vida cotidiana se reavivaría y le consumiría; si la destrucción no sobrevenía inmediatamente estaría sometido todavía más tiempo a la fantasía de que le devorara la estolidez. Era mejor verse arrastrado a una catástrofe repentina y total que carcomido por el cáncer de la imaginación. Todo ello podía deberse al miedo inconsciente a que se revelara su indudable mediocridad si no se daba fin a sí mismo sin demora."

-Yukio Mishima

"Why did his mind fly uneasily to that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all men and woman who reach middle age without the clear perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation of an untried good."

-George Eliot

" [...]It is "your" congressman, "your" highway, "your" favorite drugstore, "your" newspaper; it is brought to "you", it invites "you", etc. In this manner, superimposed, standarized, and general things and functions are presented as "especially for you". It makes little difference whether or not the individuals thus addressed believe it. Its success indicates that it promotes the self-identificacion of the individuals with the functions which they and the others perform."

-Marcuse

"[...] how the drunk and the maimed both are dragged forward out of the arena like a boneless Christ, one man under each arm, feet dragging, eyes on the aether."

-David Foster Wallace

"That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact."

-J.D.Salinger

“The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in who Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from buring windows. The terror of falling from a great height is still as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling 'Don't!' and "Hang on!', can understand the jump. Not really. You'd have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest