I was at a concert in a bar, and they had one of those old photobooths. I was thinking how cool and beautiful it was when this couple went inside. I took a couple of pictures and I decided to make an animated GIF . I sent it to my friend and writer Julio Teruel who wrote this story based in that GIF.

 

photobooth

 

TRANSLATED STORY

“We wanted to hold on to the beginning, when everything was new and dirty, when everything was touched and licked, when we could do with any light and any shelter. We wanted to stop the seconds, immortalize the minutes, jam the needles of all the clocks that did not exist. In that beginning everything was a leftover, everything was worth it.

With such few letters and such little ink we wrote novels on ephemeral walls, because we could not be trapped in cubicles of metallic floors. We drank beer and we changed our names: yours, Lolita, mine, whatever you wanted. Without speakers the music deafened us, we got blinded by white lights coming from no sun, we covered our hands without gloves, or with tattoos or nail polish, or else,… with your hands intertwined with mine.

And so we LASTED…

Until you made a feint at walking away, leave that empire without borders. Into the darkness, where the rest exists. Into absolute nothingness, when we were everything.

And in that way, half with me, half without me, the camera began shooting and I ended up looking blurry and confused, and you… you kissed me as you were leaving. In the cheap photos your face stuck out perfect, and mine mutated into the abominable, because I became obsessed with getting you trapped a little while longer, just a little, the while that the minutes, the seconds and the needles we cannot apprehend, gave us. In the last picture I am the protagonist, you are missing. That’s why it’s the first the picture, the only one that I have hanging on a wall that is white, immaculate, where there are no traces of ink. Just you, and the memory of a night when in there I discovered the meaning of loss. How stupid, I never even had you. You were the one that invaded a space that was whatever, and transformed it into something.

What was your name? Why did you get in there with me?

Who owned the half-drunk beer that was witness to the absurdity of spontaneity and of the destruction it causes when consequences aren’t those I dared to imagine in that gifted sigh? My purpose was to take some pictures of myself, and you decided to join the portraits, like a jam stain that just won’t wash off. But you left, and with the last pop of the flash, the beginning was over, and everything remained dirty, but it was no longer new.”

 

ORIGINAL STORY:

“Quisimos retener el principio, cuando todo era nuevo y sucio, cuando todo se tocaba y se lamía, cuando nos valía cualquier luz y cualquier cobijo. Quisimos detener los segundos, inmortalizar los minutos, atorar las agujas de todos los relojes, que no existían. En ese comienzo todo nos sobraba, todo nos valía. Con tan pocas letras y tan pocas tintas escribíamos novelas en paredes efímeras, porque no nos podían encerrar en cubículos de suelos de metal. Bebíamos cerveza y nos cambiábamos el nombre, tú Lolita, yo lo que quisieras. Sin altavoces nos atronaba la música, sin sol nos cegaban luces blancas, sin guantes cubríamos nuestras manos, o con tatuajes o con pintauñas, o si no, con tus manos entrelazadas con las mías. Y así perduramos. Hasta que hiciste amago de alejarte, de salir de ese imperio sin fronteras. A la oscuridad, a donde existe el resto. A la nada más absoluta, cuando lo éramos todo. Y así, medio conmigo, medio sin mí, la cámara empezó a disparar y yo terminé saliendo movido y confuso y tú… tú me besabas mientras te ibas. En las fotos de mala calidad tu cara asomó perfecta y la mía mutó en abominable, porque me obcequé en atraparte un rato más, sólo un rato más, el que al final nos concedieron los minutos, los segundos y las agujas que no podemos apresar. En la última foto soy protagonista, no estás. Por eso es la primera la única que tengo colgada en una pared que es blanca, inmaculada, donde no existen rastros de tinta, sólo tú y el recuerdo de una noche en la que allí dentro, descubrí el significado de perderte, qué estupidez, si nunca te tuve, si fuiste tú la que invadiste un espacio que era uno cualquiera y lo transformaste. ¿Cómo te llamabas? ¿Por qué entraste conmigo? ¿De quién era la cerveza a medio beber que fue testigo del absurdo que es la espontaneidad y del destrozo que conlleva si las consecuencias nunca son las que me atreví a imaginar en ese suspiro regalado? Mi propósito era hacerme unas fotos, y tú decidiste formar parte de retratos, como si fueras una mancha de mermelada que no se va. Pero te fuiste, y con el último flash, se terminó el principio, y todo siguió sucio, pero ya no era nuevo. “

JULIO TERUEL

 

Julio Teruel is an usual contributor to the blog. You are going to read more stories from him here as long as he is willing to collaborate. And if you are interested in his amazing and engaging stories you can follow his work on his blog (I’m sorry but it’s only written in Spanish).