So much reminiscing, walking life tip toeing around the broken glass that I created. This is no news to me, it is not the first nor the last time I tried to reveal and suffer the consequences.
My problem always has been admitting the need of help, accepting the feeling of relief that comes with the "everything will be O.K" from psychologists, and scientists because after all, Heidegger was right. We are a simple run of bundle of qualities reduced to a scientific study.
Notwithstanding I blame my brokenness on her stubbornness. Her persistence of wanting to live with this not-at-homeness feeling with the world. And, I tried once to yell her name, reveal myself against her paths, tell her to get out, to leave for once and for all, and to let me walk my nightmares alone.
But it is then in my bare rebelliousness that she unfolds her sweet evilness to me. When she stands above my being and in one second opens her wings to slap me infinitely with love, with anger, with pleasure. "I made you" are her gentle words that echo in my soul.
And as the truth sinks in, I take my fall to the frozen ground with the taste of sweet blood on my lips. And I wait, wait, and wait for her to build me up once more because as much as I hate to admit it, she makes me better.
After deep doses of sleep I am still waking up every morning with the taste of blood on my lips. A reminder to never, ever again try to change the who I am because just as she builds me up, she is the only one who can decide when to tear me down.
So, I start all over again trying to accommodate to her new needs, to the needs of others, to the ones I love, to the surrounds, to the world. Oh the world, this empty place that we are thrown to by an overruling power force. And I wonder the why of my existance, I hear answers, all so similar but all so difficult to accept.
I prepare for the new trip, packed light because the walk will be very long. I commit to her pleasure, knowing that I am committing to never endless challenges but with promises this time, that things will be different as long as I don't try to reveal again. I stare deep into her eyes, my eyes, she smiles, I smile because she is so beautiful and I feel so safe. "Where do I begin?"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Start by loving yourself."
Monday, December 17, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
With Flowers And My Conscious In A White Table
As I reflect on all these emotions you have brought out of me at this white table,
it is only fair that I share with you the memories that you have returned to me,
not that you asked for it and in fact, I'm sure you could give two shits.
However, I need to address what the feelings call for.
I hate flowers. I mean, from the first time I noticed the shape of one at tia Mirella's funeral, a rose with such dark color, small, fragile, and why would I be considering the shape of a rose in such tragical moment? But it is such an incomprehensible habit to throw a rose to the uneven hole of the dead, hoping for what? Did the rose leave with her soul as well, to where? flower heaven?
Since then, it seems as if I've noticed every rose, every petal in every funeral attended, and seek for a why. All those flowers so familiar, so similar to the last ones, and then,
His.
What is the meaning behind flowers, god, if they all recall death to me.
His funeral was full of them, everywhere, reassuring me, confirming that he was dead and that I was dying too.
I just wanted to burn those flowers, to make them disappear,
and I was ready to do so but grandma looked so weak, and I was weak, and the pills were kicking in. I held my last flower there with a promise to never hold back, and to many more promises that I've yet knew I had. Funny how promises seem to carry out in such odd ways, and take so long to fall through.
Well, I have held back way more than what I promised. Except for the who I am, and I think that is fair enough. The rest such as tears, actions, and thoughts are just temporary hold backs, because they eventually come out.
I don't want to lose you in this nonsense, keep track cause flowers are not the only thing I hate. I hate my conscious too. I hate her because she analyzes too much, she becomes so introverted and constantly reminds me that I have half of a soul. I hate her selfishness, so unsatisfied she is, nothing I do is enough. She keeps on searching for reasons to live without allowing me, and us for that matter, to decide on those reasons. She constantly reminds me of my past, the who I was, my mistakes, my failures, my miserable frustrations, my nonsense, my nonsense times two. And of course she reminds me of how unhappy I have been. I learn about her everyday, in fact I changed my career to focus my life in understanding the why of her behavior.
The reasons why I try so hard to forget, to be happy, to fight, and when I have it all figured out, she reminds me and I remember my missing part. When I feel life and death so close to me, the smell of morphine at the tip of my fingers, I remember my missing part.
How do you do it? that's my question really, admiring your strength at a distance
because in a way this is all I would want to have. We are so distant yet I can easily observe what to grasp from your life, and find comfort in the enigma of your name. I don't want anything I promise, I don't seek for your pity nor your words of advice neither an answer to my questions. I just want the permission to contemplate such special human being. You, with your struggles and flaws, and even with a curious conscious as mine, you seem to have risen and managed the pain beyond the heart.
Taking away all these accidents that are just part of what is most visible to me, I contemplate your soul, your feelings, your assumed desires with no intention but to gradually steal some of that strength that I always seek to find.
And I just hope you don't mind my stare, stranger.
it is only fair that I share with you the memories that you have returned to me,
not that you asked for it and in fact, I'm sure you could give two shits.
However, I need to address what the feelings call for.
I hate flowers. I mean, from the first time I noticed the shape of one at tia Mirella's funeral, a rose with such dark color, small, fragile, and why would I be considering the shape of a rose in such tragical moment? But it is such an incomprehensible habit to throw a rose to the uneven hole of the dead, hoping for what? Did the rose leave with her soul as well, to where? flower heaven?
Since then, it seems as if I've noticed every rose, every petal in every funeral attended, and seek for a why. All those flowers so familiar, so similar to the last ones, and then,
His.
What is the meaning behind flowers, god, if they all recall death to me.
His funeral was full of them, everywhere, reassuring me, confirming that he was dead and that I was dying too.
I just wanted to burn those flowers, to make them disappear,
and I was ready to do so but grandma looked so weak, and I was weak, and the pills were kicking in. I held my last flower there with a promise to never hold back, and to many more promises that I've yet knew I had. Funny how promises seem to carry out in such odd ways, and take so long to fall through.
Well, I have held back way more than what I promised. Except for the who I am, and I think that is fair enough. The rest such as tears, actions, and thoughts are just temporary hold backs, because they eventually come out.
I don't want to lose you in this nonsense, keep track cause flowers are not the only thing I hate. I hate my conscious too. I hate her because she analyzes too much, she becomes so introverted and constantly reminds me that I have half of a soul. I hate her selfishness, so unsatisfied she is, nothing I do is enough. She keeps on searching for reasons to live without allowing me, and us for that matter, to decide on those reasons. She constantly reminds me of my past, the who I was, my mistakes, my failures, my miserable frustrations, my nonsense, my nonsense times two. And of course she reminds me of how unhappy I have been. I learn about her everyday, in fact I changed my career to focus my life in understanding the why of her behavior.
The reasons why I try so hard to forget, to be happy, to fight, and when I have it all figured out, she reminds me and I remember my missing part. When I feel life and death so close to me, the smell of morphine at the tip of my fingers, I remember my missing part.
How do you do it? that's my question really, admiring your strength at a distance
because in a way this is all I would want to have. We are so distant yet I can easily observe what to grasp from your life, and find comfort in the enigma of your name. I don't want anything I promise, I don't seek for your pity nor your words of advice neither an answer to my questions. I just want the permission to contemplate such special human being. You, with your struggles and flaws, and even with a curious conscious as mine, you seem to have risen and managed the pain beyond the heart.
Taking away all these accidents that are just part of what is most visible to me, I contemplate your soul, your feelings, your assumed desires with no intention but to gradually steal some of that strength that I always seek to find.
And I just hope you don't mind my stare, stranger.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
El sentir
Humo tras humo, trago tras trago, asi se acumulan las nubes formando nuestro retrato. Voy subiendo a mi espacio donde solo existe el recuerdo. Tiro mi vestido, pongo mi titulo al lado y me aparto del presente. Entro al cuarto de palabras nunca olvidadas, enterradas en mi piel, las veo marcadas por el tiempo, pisoteadas por el ayer. Preguntas que regresan aun sabiendo respuesta, como el borracho que se devuelve y demanda por mas alcohol sin haber pagado pasadas cuentas.
Una verdad concreta es lo que quieres obtener.
Un sentimiento no abstracto que se pueda ver. Lo que buscas es un motor interno que te ayude a creer, en mi otra vez. La verdad es que lo que hoy existe no tiene nombre ni forma.
Un sentimiento talvez borrado, desecho por nuestros errores. Si me preguntas lo que siento la respuesta depende del dia, pues aveces mi cuerpo te extraña de formas que ni entenderias.
Esto no tiene esperanza concreta, no es respuesta de Si o No, es una espera de mil lunas y noches de lluvia si tienes el valor.
Heridas vivas y listas para volver como la puerta de mi salida que me llama a mi presente otra vez. Me pongo mi vestido, mi titulo y mi orgullo y vuelo de regreso rompiendo el humo de nuestro ayer.
Una verdad concreta es lo que quieres obtener.
Un sentimiento no abstracto que se pueda ver. Lo que buscas es un motor interno que te ayude a creer, en mi otra vez. La verdad es que lo que hoy existe no tiene nombre ni forma.
Un sentimiento talvez borrado, desecho por nuestros errores. Si me preguntas lo que siento la respuesta depende del dia, pues aveces mi cuerpo te extraña de formas que ni entenderias.
Esto no tiene esperanza concreta, no es respuesta de Si o No, es una espera de mil lunas y noches de lluvia si tienes el valor.
Heridas vivas y listas para volver como la puerta de mi salida que me llama a mi presente otra vez. Me pongo mi vestido, mi titulo y mi orgullo y vuelo de regreso rompiendo el humo de nuestro ayer.
Friday, April 6, 2012
La debilidad del Coraje
Es una pregunta
de dos partes.
La felicidad deriva
de una de estas,
dado que el coraje
enciende en la alegria
el sentimiento de conformación
y orgullo.
Nietzsche una vez dijo
Que nuestras pasiones
no deben ser limitadas
mientras estas esten
manejadas por la razón.
Si en parte este
fuera el caso,
el coraje no seria
solo alegria
pero rabia, celos y odio.
La razón, conformada con
la consciencia, decide el
contenido suficiente que
Derrochamos ante nuestro coraje,
entregando las gotas
suficientes que no
lastiman el alma.
O talvez,
la conciencia dirige la via
de aquel contenido,
convirtiéndolo en energia positiva.
Pero si esta no
soluciona la parte dos
de la pregunta podriamos
enfocarnos en porque
contemplamos la debilidad
con el defecto
en la misma categoria.
Lo defectuoso no es débil
asi como el alma tierna
por ser pequeña no esta incompleta.
Es la esencia del coraje lo cual nos hace débil.
El coraje es el luchar
por ser feliz y
su debilidad es
el mantener el alma pura
y brillante.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Silence
Silence,
an arm so powerful and quite disturbing at last,
which thinks of lull times yet to come and elaborates images of what is no there. The difference lays in the past and the present, "the black and white" as I call it.
For there has always been a past in which silence has opened the door to lustful lips and passionate touches or dropped tears that recall lost souls,
painful goodbyes or vanished material love.
Silence,
don't we fear thee, whether it brings good or bad news, whether you perdure in the present or rejoice in the past. The truth and lies you hide and put to light, always change or reaffirm a suffering or a greatness damned to whom aught to listen, see or feel.
Silence,
in the need to find the unknown you awake the excitement of a life but not dare to lie because the present will always uncover your past, without shame. Notwithstanding knowing this truth will drag thou destiny to hell, your destiny to an end because your beginnings are powerful but not limitless.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Ragdoll
As the old pictures waiting to be hanged,
As the cloth of last night's dinner,
Always waiting more of me,
But my heartfelt words have offered just enough.
What was never said will dissolve in tea,
as the cheater who says "never again"
I'm feeling trapped in this prison of love.
But on the road of oblivious will I belong if
I ever renounce this statement of love.
I would face the devil, without doubt,
if that is what it took to see your face when I speak.
You're simply everything I want
but I lose you completely between my silences.
My eyes are two black crosses that have never spoken,
My heart full of cruel distress and I,
a misunderstood ragdoll.
Every silence is a cloud that flies away behind me,
with a nonstop mourn. I wanna tell you what I feel for you
without a fear. And may the moon be my guest when I say
that I love you with the same passion in which
January witnessed our love.
I am not afraid of the eternal fire
nor to it's bitter stories of love but
silence is such a cold feeling. And my
winters are already so long.
Your return seems far, still
laying in between the verses of a cheap tango song
and undebatable this sincere heart that belongs to you,
can die intact as the soul of a ragdoll.
*Inspired by Oreja De Vang Gogh
Muñeca De Trapo*
As the cloth of last night's dinner,
Always waiting more of me,
But my heartfelt words have offered just enough.
What was never said will dissolve in tea,
as the cheater who says "never again"
I'm feeling trapped in this prison of love.
But on the road of oblivious will I belong if
I ever renounce this statement of love.
I would face the devil, without doubt,
if that is what it took to see your face when I speak.
You're simply everything I want
but I lose you completely between my silences.
My eyes are two black crosses that have never spoken,
My heart full of cruel distress and I,
a misunderstood ragdoll.
Every silence is a cloud that flies away behind me,
with a nonstop mourn. I wanna tell you what I feel for you
without a fear. And may the moon be my guest when I say
that I love you with the same passion in which
January witnessed our love.
I am not afraid of the eternal fire
nor to it's bitter stories of love but
silence is such a cold feeling. And my
winters are already so long.
Your return seems far, still
laying in between the verses of a cheap tango song
and undebatable this sincere heart that belongs to you,
can die intact as the soul of a ragdoll.
*Inspired by Oreja De Vang Gogh
Muñeca De Trapo*
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