Wires

I open my eyes to what feels to be soft and cold, perhaps it is snow that buries my unmovable body. I lay there hoping someone can figure out that I am still alive and, I hear voices calling names but none are calling mine. And that brings me to the question, "what is my name?" 

I remember a room, full of pictures, there is a table with what seems to be sharp knifes and wires. "WIRES!" I can feel the burn of my hands and feet at the memory of those wires, it's a combination of pleasure, pain and warmth to my body. I feel compassion and attraction to the wires. They bring memories, so many memories flushing in and out and, in one second I'm laughing while the next I am crying out of pain. 

I don't understand, the more I let the thoughts flush through my head, the more energy I feel towards the wires. They are burning, crushing my bones, with such intensity that almost brings me to pleasure. I come back to the present and focus on using that energy to free myself from whatever I am under. It's a heavy load, so soft but suffocating and overwhelming, no muscles in move, limited oxygen. I try to touch my face, and it's a complete illusion. There is no moving going on, but I close my eyes and imagine the feeling of my hands in contact with the outside. 

"You're my dream girl" 

It's what I hear, while he ties the wires to my feet. My eyes are open and lively watching everything happen but, the mind is rejoicing in the words, and in everything that flows out of his lips. It's like magic, his lips barely move but every word sounds so sweet, way too sweet. Then, he grabs my hands, the last free thing,  

"I get to marry the girl of my dreams"

and it is as if I volunteer to surrender them, It's a hurtful knot and my pulse raises, but I could care less when I'm dancing with the devil. 

Every morning after that felt like a preparation for a heart attack. The pulses felt stronger but, the physical pain was eased as long as his lips were whispering in my ear. Some days I was standing, others I was sitting, I observed the pictures in the room which none made sense. Pictures of letters, pictures of other pictures, shoes, notebook, bracelets, a t-shirt, a mug, a wallet. There is no correlation between the objects but, I know I've seen them before. I try to remember why I'm tied up again, but I struggle as much as I struggled to remember my name in reality. I asked questions, but they seem to have turned him violent towards me, and I breathe in as I watch the knifes flying my way. I take a few steps back and crumble to the bed, quick enough to remember that I am all tied up. "Ahhh" there is the pain, the pain in my reality, pain in my illusion, pain in my memories, from what? from moving? the wires? from a knife piercing my soul? I never understood the rules of the game, was I suppose to surrender and never question? was I suppose to stand quietly and never doubt? Or, was I suppose to believe everything was told and given, and be satisfied with it?  

The flashbacks become more vivid, and the weight from the snow begins to intensify as the pain from the memories do. I remember passing out on the ground, tied up and naked to my soul. I said little before closing my eyes, but whatever I said was enough for him to untied the wires. And it burned, it burned so much, so, so, so much. I was free but the pain was worst than the knifes crushing me, than the wires accelerating my heart beat, than the "almost a heart attack" feeling every morning. "Take it as a lesson learned, never defy love" were the last words before I close my eyes. 

I come back to reality, and I'm numb. I think the snow have frozen my body again, and it makes sense since the memory of the wires is gone. I hear a sound, I cannot make up the words but, someone is getting closer, and they are yelling desperately, almost nervously, but I am tired, I want to sleep now. It's getting closer but I canno--

"PAM!"  

My apologies- Confessions of a shattered mind

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?"
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"Start by loving yourself."     

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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*