Israel Centeno

The light slices through the blinds, a spotlight on my face. I blink, dust motes swirling in the sudden brightness. Fall. Late morning. Fall, and every movement a symphony of aches. If only I could surrender to stillness.

But no. This melancholy waltz demands a partner.

T.S. Eliot, Prufrock, begone. This isn’t your refined despair. This is a tango, a bolero – raw, desperate.

Once, my words sang. Words were music.

Remember, remember… No, not that. But something like it. A rhythm to trace circles on the Thames’ banks, a torch held high, a chorus of voices echoing through the mist. V for Vendetta, reimagined by a South American yearning to ignite the world.

He wasn’t one of us, the boy from El Guarataro. We were cider-sipping expats, lost in London’s labyrinth, chanting,laughing, dreaming of borrowed immortality. But he burst from the shadows, eyes ablaze, Guy Fawkes’ name a curse and a plea. Pain, madness, and a desperate hunger for the bonfire’s warmth twisted within him.

I tried to reach him, a familiar face from Marble Arch. Impossible. The crowd surged, hands clasped, a dizzying whirl.Then, only fire – two effigies consumed, flames licking at the caraqueño’s coat as he danced, a demented jester, towards the river. Chants, laughter, the primal pulse of a makeshift tribe. London, back then.