Pink curtains

It was the day that we had to move, we would discover a new room, a strange room located in the midst of Mexico City. She was the one that bought us, she, the Canadian girl who spent all her days smoking pot and crying. Why did she choose us? We wonder. We could never understand why was it that she cut us so bluntly and left us hanging there in the mere solitude that put us between that tiny room and the closed up patio that was behind us. We always faced her. We saw how she fucked different guys every night. She would never talk to them. She would breathe profusely and then sleep when everything was over. They would leave in the morning. A remark about us was always pertinent, or so it seemed. Everyone was astound by our color. Our pink color. We like it even if it is inadequate for our character. We are gloomy and sad but we dress in bright pink. We are living in Mexico aren’t we? We are supposed to dress in bright colors, dance and scream no? It doesn’t matter that the country is filled with blood and brutality. We resist the violence of our place of residence with our detailed embroideries in pink and green. We are curtains, we like to cover. Cover disaster and the ray of light. We wonder how long will we continue hanging? Resting with our treads wrecked on the edges. We resist, we are curtains. We are pink, we are Mexicans. That is how they want us to act, silent and bright. The Canadian girl left, then came a crazy Californian filmmaker whose only wish was to become a preacher of a newage religion. After a few witnessed rituals this guest left, as well. Now we face each other in solitude. We have lost the ability to speak. We wait, we hang, we wait.


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