La no-aptitud para la humanidad: work in progress

work in progress

I feel the warmth of the sun spreading between the sheets. I stretch my feet peacefully. In the distance the roosters are rejoicing the sun's arrival. As I open my eyes, I wonder: Am I still asleep, or am I finally awake? The objects that appear before me are surrounded by a misty cloud. They seem like visions from another existence that are being received at the transition between dreams and consciousness. As I stare at these apparitions I realize: God my room is depressing!
There is a sense of caos throughout the whole room. In my wooden desk the aging typewriter is drowned by a sea of papers. The books are scattered inside the paper ocean. They lie open, silently screaming of knowledge I'll never know, or will soon forget. A black lamp is curved down, looking at the scene. Its surface shines upon receiving the rays of light that come through the open window. It's resting on top of my old bible, the one that has accompanied me throughout most of my life and now is practically forgotten. The pages are slightly bent and turning yellow with the passage of time.On the side, one can read the initials M.J. next to what seems to be a childlike interpretation of a house. The pink rose I loved so much in my childhood is placed at the back of the desk. Its handcrafted petals have holes in it from all the times I clumsily played with it. The flower is looking down, intoxicated by the sense of nostalgia that has invaded the atmosphere. After all I had to go through to be able to buy that knitted rose, it now lies in an insignificant corner of my life. My eyes turn to the nighttable. It is now seven thirty. A book of Chagall stands out from the mountain of magazines that have been squeezed into the small space. The intense red of the cover stands out from the rest. In the scene, there are people dancing in the clouds. I see them smiling, soaring in their happiness, floating in ecstasy, so far from the state in which I find myself. On top of those figures I read the green letters that say: "The Art of Dreams". As I ponder on these words, my eyes come across the pile of canvases in the other side of my room. I see them all mixed up. At the farther end of the pile, my portfolio lies half open.The eye of Venus looks straight at me as the rest of her face lies in the shadow of the painting resting in front. The blue and green faceless embrace rests at the top. They are surrounded by reddish flowers and yellow leaves. They are freezed forever in the expectation of a kiss: never knowing anything else, never realizing what they were set out to do. They just hold each other. No eyes to look from, no defined lips to kiss, no expression, no emotion. I stare at the unfinished strokes of oil. Am I ever going to complete the scene? Are they doomed to stay in that state perpetually. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is a huge mess and my eyes are only half open. Am I too, in a way, unfinished? Has the invisible hand completed the painting or am I just made of mere strokes of colors only glimpsing what the finished product will be? An for that matter will I ever be completed? I see the pictures of my friends that are stuck at my mirror frame. Are we all just works in progress like my painting? The title of the Chagall book comes back into mind. Once more I look around. There is no more cloudy mist surrounding the messy room. The open cabinets, the torn pair of jeans that lie on the corner of my bed, the wilted roses hanging upside down from my window which hold too much sentimental value for me to throw out... No, these are not visions. They are not dreams. They are just witnesses to a work in progress.