cuando me pediste entender.

A small paid assassin resides somewhere in my skin with me. It is a killer of beautiful things. It lives in an isolated present: it has no past, and desires no future. It challenges every second to be its end, because its deepest wish is to possess beauty, the beauty of the ephemeral. It asks itself, what can be more ephemeral that something that does not wish to last? No one ever taught it things like to feel infinite, even more so when they know they will die. No one ever told it, existence itself might be justified by that delusion. No one ever pointed out, how silly it looks, feeling sublime in its hopelessness. And so, behaving not unlike a fundamentalist, a fanatic of this dogma or another, it dances clumsily, but accurately, stepping on dew drops that were meant to be left intact. Dew drops that die, but are born as a different thing. This assassin, it was never taught to change. It half-exists, afraid to remember any past, afraid to imagine any future, afraid to be called the equal of those whose weaknesses he finds so easy to spot. Afraid to look up, mediocre rabid mascot of the thing he gnashes at, demanding some loving as pay.