Luis was born an artist.
His fingers, like pencils, ready to live.
Except no one gave him a canvas.
The family business was accountancy.
His father’s hobby were fast cars.
His brother loved football.
So he grew up swimming in cars, soccer balls, numbers.
He grew up wanting racing cars for christmas.
He though that was all, he never knew.
His fingers locked up like colors on a box.
Luis locked up in an office on a suit.
His beard trimmed, his hair slicked back.
How could he imagine? He never knew.
And his hands that only learned how to make numbers wake up at night.
They open and close while he sleeps.
And he dreams.
He dreams waves of colors that make no sense, that eat him alive.
He rises at 6:45, to the digits on his alarm.
Drinks 1 cup of coffee, black.
Irons a nice shirt, drives to work, greets co-workers, makes a joke, has a light lunch, meets a friend for a beer, 2 beers, 3 beers, says goodbye, drives home, calls his beautiful girlfriend, smiles.
Then he drops to his knees on the shower and completely breaks down.
His hands hurt.
His head (that only learned numbers) has no idea why…