Txema Rodríguez

It all started decades before failing in love with you. As a child, being true to my desire and asserting my will would lead to bitter harvests. It was my choice to be your servant so I could forget myself and rest from the burdens of responsibility.
I made you my only focus. You scheduled my breath. You payed the bills. You named my needs and picked up the suitable toys: the collar, the crop, the handcuffs.
I could secretly blame you for all mistakes while rejoicing in moral superiority.
You were the iron curtain before all things forbidden and disquieting. You set the rules to follow with subtle or blunt narcissistic chinoiserie, depending on the days, depending on your moods.
Safe, sane limits saved my craving for perfection from unexpected blunder.
But, was it really of mutual agreement? I was so eager to please, emotionally numb, voiceless and narcotized. I can barely remember what I really wanted, if I really wanted anything at all.
Maybe the problem is a virtual absence of desire. Maybe you were just a woeful detour in the search for God.
Some nights my mind feels like a a play of macabre and horrific nature. I won’t forget you hold hostages. From time to time I wonder about your new acolyte and imagine the terms of the actual bondage, praying for him.
Now, what? Now that I am truly loved, what?
Now that I’ve realized I had always been the master, what?
Sometimes I look at the mirror and I see a lottery winner with no aim, a door-to-door salesman faking the perfect smile. At last, I resolve to pay the ransom and talk to you respectfully.
It’s raining heavily in Las Vegas now. A young couple has just got married in a quirky chappel near the liquor store. Elvis lights a cigarette as they turn the corner and the small bouquet shrivels on top of a garbage dump.