She knew that words never traveled alone. She knew that El Duende was to blame for the world that changed on the turn of yesterday to today. The snow-white ghost has done what it had to do, taking her bleeding heart for a walk from Emily Dickinson to Virginia Wolf. When you pour the pain out on the paper, it hurts less – every word you utter leads you a little closer to your destiny, she wrote down, although, she knew, the day fifteen made her start counting the clear drops of blood that rumbled in her. On one side, a man set in stone. On the other, another one, whose distress hurts her much more. With him, every time she dropped her guard and let him close to her, she saw her future self standing in the line next to Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath
. And she knew, oh how well she knew, that she was just one step away from the never trodden road to the open sky.
Every time experienced anew, a losing game to the death. It’s all El Duende’s fault, she said, for throwing me in the bottomless abyss of pain, where only the one who whispered those sweet, bitter, impossible words of promised happiness thorough the ghost, only he can find me. Do not run away from your destiny, no one has managed to escape from it yet, she wrote down, and she knew that the phantasm was telling her the truth, but she just wasn’t ready to face it. Today. She closed the door of the balcony and locked the howling wind on the other side, wailing, lamenting, raging at her sudden, inexplicable decision to ban him from residing in her apartment. In her thoughts. In her city. In her bedroom.
—You discarded me, he said. —I thought you were the one who left first, she answered. —There is no way of surviving you, he admitted, the way she always imagined he’d admit it. But that was yesterday.
The words kept coming and she knew, the words never come alone. It’s all to El Duende’s fault. And Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. And a painter’s, in whose arms she greeted the new dawn.