there’s this image you’ve created of yourself for years. This narrative you create yourself day after day about who you are. One day realize that that’s not you anymore. And you may blame yourself for not being that person. And you may try to be that person and realize that the attempt only makes you unhappy. Then another day you realize that who you’ve become is not a diluted version of your older self. You’ve simply become someone else. Just as valuable and worthy of your respect. Just different. Then you accept yourself. Then you change again. And it just keeps happening over and over again. Hopefully next time you won’t be so harsh on yourself. Open yourself up to change… even within you.
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los tentaculos de las politicas personales extirpando la libertad de las mentes. De derecha o de izquierda se pelean nuestras mentes, apelando a nuestros miedos, a nuestras fronteras sociales. Un poco defraudada por lo facil que se ha vuelto manipularnos por aquellos que, ironicamente, predican la liberacion de pensamiento. Que se yo? … esto de vivir en un mundo corrupto aun me cuesta aceptar. Todos somos humanos.
Flowing from the core of my third eye open crazy, revolutionizing my experience of life, my yperness is melting away the fear, it breaks through the obstacles, it climbs up and down, up and down, and I’m writing again, writing again, typing away like crazy, the guitar is ready, the fingertips already, the heart is ready, ready to say I dooooon’t caaaaaare what happens next… the now, let me love the now, LET ME LOOOOOVE the now, like there will be no tomorrow. Have I felt this alive in years? I don’t know. Have I felt this alive in a long time? I don’t know? I misssssssssss, misssssss, misssssssss people and faces, and my language and my naivete, my idealism with no spots on cynicism on it, missssssssss my family, misssssss my friends, but I feel. Out of all these experiences I feel in my heart very deeply. I feel. Because I’m alive. The creation is coming through my fingertips, my eyes keep shining. I don’t know when this poem will end, I almost don’t want it to end, to end, to end, but it has to be more than a poem, it has to be a dance, and a dance that lasts all night, with dreams and sleep incorporated, with a little bit of waking up and moving on and a good day ahead, without the fear of my own fears and without the fear of hate, and without fear of exclusion and without the fear of missing and without the fear of not being enough and without te fear of another fucking campaign. I am way beyond honesty. But I need to speak. SOmedays te screaming goes in my head. Not in my ome, not in my neighborhood, not in my school, not in my club, not in my workplace, not in my city, not in my area, not in my country, not in my church. Not here, you go over there. FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK THAT!!!! THIS EARTH WAS MADE FOR ME TOOOOOOOOOOOO. IT WAS CREATED FOR MEEEEE TOOOOO… EVERYWHERE I STEP I HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE THERE! I never killed anyone, I never commited a crime, so DO NOT punish me for something I didn’t do. Anywhere I go, I am free to be there. I don’t need permission. I am free. I am reclaming those spaces, my space is freedom. I had a meeting, a meeting in my dreams, that’s how stressed I was but it was because I cared. I am a good person. I try to validate myself. But I don’t need you to know that I am a good person. I know. that’s enough. I write my poetry, inspired by hate, by exclusion, tainted with disloyal bonds, tainted with urt in my heart of people I miss who discriminate against me. It’s ok. I have moved on. In my next life, in my next life I’ll still be me. In my next life I’ll still be fine. In my next life I’ll be an artist, speaking tooooo much, writing too much, writing past the point of honesty. No fear. I don’t want to walk with fear. This is my world too. I exist.
Sometimes there’s more female in me than male, those days I call myself a womyn. Sometimes when I’m with other ladies, sharing the special bond that our gender segregation has allowed for us to develop, I feel like a womyn. But never entirely. You see me and you see a woman. But I am in between that gray area that wants it all. Maybe it’s ambition, I don’t know, the need to have more than one gender, or not be confined to any of the two, or simply saying, I am sometimes more female than male, I don’t really want to change anything down there, but I don’t feel like a womyn or a man. But what does it mean to be a woman? There’s an energy to womyn, I don’t know how to describe it, like this aura.. You might see it when you see a group of powerful mujeres dancing at a fandango. That’s how I saw it for the first time, and I realized, “that’s what being a womyn is”. I can’t put it into words but I saw it. And I loved it, I adored it, I felt blessed to witness that presence. “But that’s not what I am” I realized. I’m not one of the guys, though my straight friends for some reason talk to me like I am. So what am I? Personally I don’t like the word “queer”. It might be empowering to many people, to reclaim the word, but I don’t feel very good when I say it. It reminds me of all the discrimination that exists. I don’t like LGBT as much either, I don’t fit in any of these words. I’m what some native american nations used to call “Two-spirit”. But I can’t claim that I am “two-spirit” because I’m not native american, maybe I have some quechuan in me from south america but not from norht america. I am… I am … I am.. I am… this is like trying to define the pigment in my skin, brown and white, and yellow, and even some black somewhere along the line of ancestry, I am just a human being. I appreciate this energy that females possess, but I am not a female, nor a male. I’m a soul. I’m beyond tha binary. Souls have many genders, souls have many colors. I’m a soul. My “queerness” is my spiritual purity. I am a combination of lgbt, put it on a blender and that’s me.
Mujer que ansias en los labios los labios de otra mujer.
Mujer que derrites tu esencia al tratar de querer imponer
En ti y en tu cuerpo cualidades no natas,
Como aquellas que mienten sobre tu particular interés.
Mujer, aquella que se define con trazos de masculinidad para ser libre.
Esta eres tu. Esa soy yo.
Sometimes I leave Orange County,
in my head.
Go to a place where I can be myself,
where I feel safe.
Sometimes I leave Orange County,
bu truth is, only place I could leave is worse than this.
Lately, I’ve been noticing people’s faces
and I’ve been feeling like they are my own people.
They are not a “them” suffering anymore,
a number or stat, a face among the crowd,
they are one of US suffering, whatever their color may be,
the same struggle is in their eyes.
They don’t teach you this when you learn about the struggle.
It can’t be taught.
It’s something you have to feel.
Your only tool is your sense of empathy.
It grows with the work.
The more you work with people.
The more you see their faces.
The more you work across movements,
the more you learn to identify that little thing inside someone’s eyes that feels a lot like the pain you feel deep in your heart.
Their eyes look like my heart broken, like hope but bitter in the mouth, like tension in the throat, anger with tears. The frustration building up.
The big and ugly, neverending voice saying “why?”
The pain of injustice. It’s something you learn to see and recognize.
And after I saw that in so many people I understood the reason why I decided to do this work.
I don’t fight for the end of injustice.
I don’t fight for what is right
I don’t fight because I should to be a good person in my eyes or in someone else’s eyes.
I don’t fihgt because my conscience tells me to do so.
I don’t fight because it is the correct thing to do
because it will help me get to a better place in life or after life
or because my political ideology says I should,
my fight doesn’t say anything about the quality of my character,
it doesn’t make me feel better,
though it makes me feel whole,
It is true that these factors are present.
But I these are not the real reasons why I fight…
After all this time I’ve opened my eyes to the real reasons why the struggle is worth it.
I fight for my friends. So they can afford to go school, so they can walk their streets in their neighborhoods without being harrassed, so they can get the job they deserve, so they are not picked up and deported to a place away from home.
I fight for my family, so that we have enough to survive and to live, so that we are together again, so that we are together again, so that we are together again, I pray, I fight, so that we are together again.
I fight for my community, so that our kids don’t end up in jail, so that they have spaces to play, so that they can have hope for a better life and not learn to be hopeless like some of us have been at some point.
It’s survival and the hope of a better life we are fighting for.
Don’t complicate it, don’t make it philosophical, political, intellectual, religious, etc.
Don’t taint it with your partisan bushit.
We don’t need any more pandering
or anymore colonizing of our minds.
We need a way in and a way out of all the systems that trap us,
organizing to build power
so our children can be safe and healthy.
I try to remind myself to always fight for real things.
Not ideas.
Lately I’ve been looking at people.
Numbers got on the way before.
Because now I know,
that the number one and the sense of loss,
if paired are just too much.
I walk, eat, work with “them”.
I live among “them”
I am “them”. It used to be “them” before.
I see their pain, I feel my own.
And it needs to stop.
That’s why I fight.
For something real…
for my friends, for my family, for the families in our communities, for all people who have that pain in their eyes which I feel too. For our lives.
today I learned about the history of a place I’ve learned to love and to call home called SantAna. And among beautiful young acitvists I heard one amazing present history in the making/news from one of my communities, that marriage equality came to NY. And I’ve realized the journeys of learning my history from back home (Peru), and to learn the history of my new home (Santa Ana), and the history of a non-geopgraphical community (LGBTQ…etc) have taken me to the point where I can say I know where I came from. I know what other people did so that I could be where I’m at. Or at least I’m on my journey to understanding that. How can we live in amnesia most of our lives? How can we not know our own histories? It determines everything that’s around us; from the parks and schools we go to, to our buildings, to the words we use, to the words we don’t use, to the things we are allowed or not allowed to do. It’s a connection. Almost spiritual. A shared history with those of the past who were in one way or another like us. Former acitvists, former poets, former lgbtq people, former inhabitants of this continent, etc. Our ancestry is not only our “blood” and family ties. My ancestors were from all over the world, from different cultures, and different colors of skin. Maybe it’s because I need to know the history of something to be able to define it. But ever since I learned my histories, I feel like I know myself a lot more.
No, I don’t idolize Bono, and I won’t wait weeks on the rain to hold The Edge’s hand, or some crazy thing like that. What I am about to say has nothing to do with idolizing or being a fan of U2. Well, maybe a little. It starts with me about 11 years ago when my dad came back from Chile to Lima, Peru and brought me “All that you can’t leave behind”, the U2 album that was released about 10 years ago. I quickly fell in love with the band, the lyrics, the music. I saw documentaries about them. I listened to their CD’s which I purchased over the years. I bought the Rattle and Hum movie in videocassette form and played it so often that I even memorized speeches that Bono made in between songs–well I also googled them since English isn’t actually my first language. I collected lyrics from their songs and read them while I heard their CD’s. Maybe at that time I was a hardcore fan, but it was always about the music. U2′s message always resonated with me, so spiritual in a way that could be felt by everyone, so open to interpretations at times, and the music had passion. Plus, when Bono sang you could see the music in all of his body, which was pretty awesome since I used to do some dancing. I don’t know if it was the best kind of music ever. To me it’s still pretty good but the message of social justice through some of their songs struck a chord with who I was, or who I was becoming as an individual.
Again, this is a tale not of idolatry but of spirituality. You see, like the band, I started my life in the Catholic Church. Singing has been part of praising God since my earliest recollections of acts of devotion. I sing pretty bad. But singing… actuatlly now that I think of it, singing is the only activity that makes me happy to my core. It overcomes me. I become something else. I feel a connection to something so within me that it’s beyond me. And I can rejoice to the core of my being. So maybe it was the music tonight that took me to a time when I was a very spirtual being, when social justice, humanism, God and all of me was ONE (for those U2 fans, no pun intended)
At that point of my life I was a very spiritual being. I don’t know what happened. Maybe if I try to recall I’ll remember how I started losing my faith. In reality, I’ve always believed in something else, whether I call it an energy, divinity, God… or simply “something els”e. I believe in that. A connection between all of us. A synergy. A Sui Generis kind of thing. I don’t know. I discover more of the nature of the divine every day that goes by, except its name… that escapes me, and I rather not “know” it, in all honesty. Since to “know” something means you can be wrong. And ultimate truth is way too overrated.
I prayed so much when I was little. I prayed so I could believe in Jesus. Don’t get me wrong, I loved God, and I loved Jesus, I just didn’t know if he was actually the son of God. But when I was singing, man, when I was singing in retreats I got so emotional that tears fell down my face and I didn’t care. I was soooo connected. If this is giving you the creeps because you think this is kind of a “Jesus Camp” documentary-kind-of-thing, let me tell you, it sort of was. In many ways to this day, the idea that I’m a sinner has stuck with me and done much damage to my self-worth. But let me tell you this, and I ask you to keep an open mind, when it was about rejoicing in the glory of God, which to translate in humanistic terms would be to find joy in the existence of everything, was one of the most extraordinary things I’ve ever felt.
Mysticism, being open to something else is not a gift everyone has. And maybe that gift isn’t valuable to many. Hey, not everyone wants a bike on Christmas, right? But I so needed mysticism. I so need it now. And I’ve gone places, I’ve chanted, I’ve meditated. I’ve found peace. But the connection that I’ve felt when I was singing during mass and at retreats has never come back.
In my attempts to find that mysticism I went back to church a couple of times, only to find the same things that made me leave. The word “sin”, so often misused. How can you tel a kid that they are a sinner? That should be a sin in itself. But well, here it was, this word sin. So ugly. But then I heard the definition of sin. Sin is something that keeps you away from God. For the non-believers, bear with me. Actually for the believers, bear with me too. Or not, it’s your choice. But it’s gonna get good so you should stick around. If sin was something that kept me away from God, how could so many things that made me closer to Him or Her be the things that made me a “sinner”.
And here’s when it all started. I came out of the closet. And it was hell from there, spiritually speaking. Well, nothing like being gay and religious to get you thinking about your soul. So I’m glad I struggled to come out because I have such an amazing understanding of my spirit thanks to that.
You see when someone calls you a sinner or a beautiful part of you “a sin” or even implies it, the damage done is one of the biggest pains you’ll ever live. Well, it depends who says it. If you go knocking on people’s doors to campaign and someone names you a godless queer chances are you’re going to say something equally horrible and get the fuck out of there. But if a friend or a relative says it. That will stay with you. And if you ask me how long, let me tell you, I ask myself the same question every day. Some people think it’s about politics. But the fact is, it’s beyond that… we’re talking about the nature of our souls and the nature of the most beautiful thing we can offer to someone, love.
So because most of this reactions had some connection to the church of my baptism I started rejecting the ideas of Chuch, and the idea of Jesus and the idea of God. Every once in a while I found myself praying. I even woke up evey once in a while praying “Our father”. I became a buddhist, which I still am by philosophy. I became a Unitarian Universalist, which also I still am by philosophy. These were welcoming spaces. I chanted in the first, sang at the others. These made me feel like I had a place in God. A place where people saw the nature of what was true within me. It had nothing to do with them being accepting or not. They just saw the truth in me. I was not a sinner. I was a precious being.
A buddhist nun once told me that our flaws are actually not a bad thing. They help us to understand other people better, to be more compassionate. So in reality, we are perfect, “flaws” and all. I downloaded this recording from a buddhist teacher. The first line says “You are precious”. If only they could tell me this at church rather than “You are a sinner”. I guess they do tell you this when they tell you that you are created to God’s image. Because of this I just find the first idea to be a contradiction. But I’m not here to change people’s churches.
Tonight as I was singing some songs at the top of my lungs, I felt it again, that connection, that same feeling I felt at the Silvio Rodriguez concert and before that probably since I ever sang at a retreat, maybe in 2004. It’s been a while since I sang to “something else”. I sang “I still Haven’t Found what I’m looking for”. And I got the song. I got it. At least tonight’s message, I got it! “I have climbed the highest mountains, I have run through the fields only to be with you, only to be with you. I have run I have crawled, I have scaled these city walls, these city walls, only to be with you, only to be with you. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” I remembered the gospel version of the song in that Rattle and Hum video I had seen years before and I thought “My God, I have done so much to find you and I still can’t see you” But the weirdest thing is here I am, talking to God and talking, and talking, and talking so much throughout the years that I’ve never taken the time to actually listen, to just shut up and wait for a response. And I’ve felt it.
Lately, I find peace when I imagine myself being embraced by Jesus. Do I believe he’s the son of God? Geez, how should I know? I just know that when I picture this, I fall asleep like a baby with a warmth inside me you can’t take away. I’ve always felt more connected to ”something else/ God” more than Jesus. I talk to “that”. And sometimes I even listen. But not often. I listen when I feel it in my body. That’s why this concert and the Silvio Rodriguez concert have actually made me realize how spiritual I am, how unified I am when I sing and dance and just feel the songs within me. These are not church songs, most of them, but they were all gospel songs in a way.
Walk on, reminded me of all that I need to leave behind to start anew. “And I know it aches and your heart it breaks but you can only take so much, walk on, leave it behind, you’ve got to leave it behind” Leaving behind what you love because you can only take so much. check!
Then, the song about MLK, with Jesus undertones, ”Pride (In the name of Love)”. That was beautiful. I’ve been thinking lately about social justice and whether I am willing to make the sacrifices in my life, whether what I do is out of love for people and not out of love for ideals and good v. evil? If what I do I do out of love more than of anger? What kind of justice do I practice? And I’ve come to the realization that in life you need to make a decision, a very real decision. Not in a ideal way, not in a way of what you should or shold not do, in a practical way, are you willing to give up having a comfortable life so that you can dedicate your life to being an activist and being of service? There’s no right or wrong, the question is, can you do it? And I’m leaning more towards “yes”. But it’s a decision tough to make. Especially since at this point, I’m thinking so much of the future. What if I have a family, etc? But at this point is yes. So when I sang that song. “What more in the name of love” I sang it with such devotion for my fellow human beings. I am devoted to God, and to the service of others, to help others fight for their dignity, for their lives ”They took your life, they could not take your pride”. Pride. Pride is knowing you are a child of God, or a beautiful being. One of the two, whichever you choose.
It’s a beautiful day. Such a buddhist song, I swear. But also very “theist”.
You see, I grew up believing in things. And breaking with them, though I’ve tried is just not gonna work. I need God in my life! I thought I needed church in my life! But apparently all I need is a choir! I used to think church was like that home where you’re not entirely accepted but hey, it’s home! you gotta go back. But after this I’m thinking, to feel this connected to God here at a U2 concert, where I did not expect it at all is a sign that there are other ways to get to Him or Her or It, to feel It bloom, from within me, with all its joy, happiness and peacefulness and healing and acceptance and compassion and passion for life outside of Church. That way is through singing, through singing while others are singing, and closing my eyes and listenING to the words of other human beings. What others say is a form of gospel, we are still prophets for each other, sometimes we just don’t know. So the next time your friend opens his or her mouth it might be God talking. Listen. You’ll miss God’s message if you don’t listen. When you pray, pray at ease, and don’t pray, pray, pray, pray and never take the time to listen to the answer to your questions. If you never shut up in your conversation with God, how can God talk back to you, huh?
I am so lucky to have this precious gift of spirituality, to feel this connection, to feel immense love and joy.
After this realization, maybe it was 3/4 into the concert, I felt a little sad for the church of my childhood. I felt that it was really sad, that because its hierarchy couldn’t see, feel or know the truth within me but they assumed to understand it, they hurt me so much, almost to the core of my being, to the point where they tainted my relationship with God and made me think that GOD , all Love, would make me love in this way only to want me not to embrace this gift. Who would do that? Not God, I think. Not the God that I feel in my heart. So I felt sad for the church, because throughout all these years and through all these spiritual struggles, I’ve find the strenght to believe in God. If I was welcomed at church, truly welcomed, I would be one of the most devoted parishioners. But I haven’t found a church of my baptism that has been truly welcoming. A church where everyone can look into my eyes or put their hands on my heart and feel what I feel. It’s all about empathy. Feel what I feel. I am so devoted and so spiritual that any church should be lucky to have me.
I smiled “bittwesweetly” at the though of this. How much devotion is our society losing only for taking it away from the stigmatized?” It’s sad. Sad that so much spiritual loss is taking place in the name of God.
I kept singing, singing and finding God in the notes, in how the sound related to my body, how I could close my eyes and feel connected to a lot of people at the stadium.
After this concert, I felt so energized, so connected, so much like I was only one whole person and beyond, like I was part of something else. And because I was there with other fans, singing and dancing, I felt myself equal among strangers like I had not felt in a while. I thought “If you cut me, don’t I bleed red, warm blood just like you? Don’t I dance like you? Don’t I feel like you? Don’t I sing like you? I’m just the same as you. I exist. I’m a human being. I’m a child of God.” I felt human again and spiritual. My spirituality and my sexuality were completely at peace with each other. I started to heal that wound.
I have a path to God again. No one can take that away. It’s a fragile path that needs work on it. Needs constant watching so I never forget. Maybe writing this blog, or getting the next tickets to a concert will help me to remember. All I know is that I sing, maybe badly, but singing meaningful songs, songs like U2 songs, songs of justice, songs of devotion, songs of love, songs of service, songs of living, songs of feeling, songs of loving, makes me feel precious. I feel made from God’s image instead of a sinner, I feel healed, no scars, no hurts, no pain, no confusion, precious, joyful, happy , unified, “ONE, One Love, One Life”
Like Bono sang tonight and like I sang tonight, and like a whole stadium responded to me in the form of God ”Love is a Temple, Love the Highest Law”
I’m reclaiming my gift, I was born to be spiritual, I was born to be devoted to something beyond me. This is who I am. And just because one of the things that I am is tied to an sterotyped identity void or, in reality, stripped off, spirituality, it doesn’t mean I have to refuse my gift of loving God, and feeling loved by “It”. My struggle to find my little place back in the body of God, even as people try to push us outside of its body has made me very spiritual. And though I don’t wish the future generations of two-spirit babies to suffer through this, I am grateful for my struggle. It has brought me to an understanding of my spirit and soul that I wouldn’t have had without it. All these questions, all these confusions, all these… “ideas” that people make up to understand something that they don’t feel, it can seep into your brain, but never let it seep into your soul.
If you love God, love “It”! With all your heart! Don’t let anyone close the door for you that “He”, “She”, “It” opened when you were given the gift of “spirituality”. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you can’t be spiritual and love how you are meant to love at the same time. Don’t let anyone ever push you away from the body of God. And if they have and you gave up but in reality you want to go back, go back! Make your way back into the energy, the beauty of all existence, reclaim it. If you were born a spiritual, two-spirit baby… reclaim ALL your identities. Spiritual and Two-spirit both! Become whole again, these identities are in harmony if you open yourself to that connection, if you allow yourself to heal, if you can just stop for a second and listen.
What do you do when you’ve built a life as an idealist, a dreamer, and you come to the realization that you can’t allow yourself to dream anymore? that you can’t believe that something will change because it’s too painful to know it might not? that you’ve lost hope? how do you redefine your identity, if your friendships, your work, your life, everything was built upon that variable of your character… being a dreamer….
in order to survive, sometimes, you need to get rid of your capacity to dream… because dreaming is a privilege not everyone can afford. sometimes dreaming can be the one thing that keeps you going, but other times it is a curse, a tool with which you can measure the shortcomings of your reality. dreaming… that’s how you want it to be.
And one day it hits you… this is how things are… and it’s never really going to change.
So dreaming only makes you feel worse, dreaming becomes poison in your veins, the wrong pill to take, dreaming becomes denial, killing your will to live, your capacity to survive.
I’m stuck here.
In this world.
In this reality.
And I need to learn to make peace with it.
Because there’s a big chance nothing is ever going to change.
Do we do the underserved kids a disservice when we tell them to dream big? Do we create even more frustration that they might feel? We talk to them about college, about hope, about a better life? but is it feasible?
And I know it is… I’m living proof… But even after college, you just go back to your reality. And wonder if it will be different. And ask life…
and sometimes answer:s: no.
Claudia is thinking of those easter weeks in Peru while growing up, with her family, her tios and tias and cousins sleeping on mattresses on the ground and couches and cushions so we would all fit in my tia’s one bedroom apartment, ocho locos, the heat, the fan, the music from the street vendors and their pirated cassettes and the pan in the shape of a muneco,”pan de dulce, pan de dulceeeee” and my tios who are now gone sleeping in the room all the way on the back, the string from the second floor that would open the door on the first floor if pulled correctly, the water, or the lack of, the time we all got sick from eatinng so many peanuts, the procession, the band, the petals falling on the image of Jesus or on the heads of people under the windows, praying, candles burning on their hands. Walking around el mercado and the best mangos ever. And the tio and the tia are now gone. How did we manage to be all there, family and strangers outside the window with so much faith and so much hope alive? And with every petal another miracle expected or another thank you letter to God. I can hardly feel my pulse anymore. Hope. hope without ritual or family becomes a commodity not everyone can afford. I feel empty. If once a foreigner, always a foreigner… will this foreigner ever find a home.. Not a family… I have a Family, thanks to God that’s all I have… and someday I’ll have my own… but a home?… Home is where your soul is… and mine wanders… travels all over the world, sometimes it wants to get out of my body… maybe home is somewhere else… somewhere where I’m gone.
Purpose: To find out who gives a fuck.
Resarch Question: Who really cares?
Methodology:
I stopped writing to people.
I stopped calling.
I stopped trying.
To see if they would call back.
Results:
My family remained in touch.
and 2 fairly new friends.
Many of my “friends” only call me or contact me to recruit me for events
Everyone else is gone.
Conclusion:
strangers are more reliable than friends.
I spent too much time networking in my new country instead of making friends, losing my friends from my old country and investing my time in the wrong friendships.
I have tons of “recruiters”
My family is ALL I HAVE.
you could be my miracle…
you could be the sea…
you could be the one I will always dream of…
but it would take a miracle…
and it would take going back in time…
to a time when my love was fresh and new…
and not the big void that it’s become…
engulfing me… and my sanity…
you could be my miracle…
I feel empty, like a pair of eyes staring at the horizon…
sunset… never sunrise…
sunset… never sunrise…
…time
all i need is time..
Un poco de vacio enroscado en el pecho.
Me han carcomido las olas que desato el aluvion.
Hay una revolucion, cuentan las lenguas,
pero a mi solo me importa
la lucha en la que vivo por despertar al dia a dia.
Un poco de vacio acumulado en el esofago,
de eso que cual manzana de Adan sube y baja por dentro
como quien fuera ansiedad delimitada
para dormir en la boca del leon no rugiente.
Y un poco de comida para avanzar.
Y no me quejo, tambien me quedan unas cuantas sonrisas.
Las brisas, la arena, la melancolia,
la playa de mis esperanzas
donde caminan los dedos como la mirada hacia el mar
y el horizonte despide el sabor a amargura.
Yo no se, la verdad,
la locura es como la neblina,
poco a poco se impregna sin que puedas verla.
Yo no se.
Hay tantos mundos.
Me levanto. Cuento los dias. Y sigo.
La nube, la tierra, la lluvia las une, son una.
El sol, el reflejo del mar,
Poema, metal y madera, fuego y agua…
Aguaaaa, vida que corre,
Como la mezcla de mis amores
La eliminacion de mis temores,
El enfrentamiento a la realidad.
La lluvia hace al barro,
El barro al mar.
Camino sobre el milagro
De su fusion invernal.
La nube, la tierra
Tus ojos,
Comienzo a divagar.
Te voy despidiendo,
Y te regalo la paz.
La nube la tierra,
El cielo oscuro, sin miedo
Camino con fe, a un paso del hielo.
Y los charcos humedos de las memorias se despejan;
La nube la tierra, el presente me abre las puertas.
Aquis estoy.
Pisando la nube, la tierra, la lluvia,
Andando en el mar.
