Encierro

With half a leg or on all fours, with a hangover or with heavy-lidded eyes, half-fluttered or in a dream, it is still a passionate moment when you grab the camera and your press pass and head into the fierce seven o'clock morning sun on the way to the start of the running of the bulls.

Thousands of visual adventures that evaporate among the piss pools and the roar of the early-morning street-cleaning trucks. The tang of piss, human forms sprawled in impossible postures. Some last few efforts at getting it off with someone. Arses strained with chocolate. Crowds from nowhere and that huge glinting orb that breaks your eyes and makes you feel immortal.

And then to wait and see if a goring occurs at your spot. Or what else is the running of the bulls about if not?

Afterwards, a newspaper, a loaf of bread and to bed.

The return is flat and dull. Everything is working. Everything hurts. The gods have fucked us.

A la pata coja o a cuatro patas, con resaca o con legañas, de pedo o con sueño, recoger la camara de fotos y tu pase de prensa de casa y enfrentarte al sol de las siete rumbo a El Encierro, sigue apeteciendo.

Miles de aventuras visuales que se evaporan entre los pises y los rugidos de los camiones de limpieza.

Olor a orinal, croquetas humanas en posturas imposibles. Ultimos intentos de conquista. Culos con chocolate. Gente de ninguna parte, y esa luz colosal que te rompe los ojos y te hace inmortal.

Luego a ver si cae en tu poste una cornada, ¿o de que va El Encierro si no?

Periodico, barra de pan y a la cama.

La vuelta no tiene gracia. Todo esta funcionando. Te duele todo. Los dioses te la metieron.