Categoría: prosa


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.

Silence

p.s. This one is a downer… y es personal. I don’t like to share facts of my personal life, unless it’s in a lyrical form but if I don’t publish this… I might as well stop any attempt to communicate for the rest of my life with any living creature….

******

The process of bilingualism is a tunnel of silence stripping you from your devices, containing your emotions boiling from within and no windows for communication. 10% of my message is out and my reflection en las paredes-espejos oblicuos que me rodean reflect my stupidity. Perhaps it is within me where I keep mis ideas de forma ordenada y un papel en donde las articulo y las puedo expresar. But you can’t scream sobre un teclado. There is no one out there to listen. It’s such a lonely world, such lonely words, such lonely listening when you cannot feel or can halfway understand, halfway say what’s on your mind. When is it going to be over? Is it always like this? Are we a nation? isolated islands maybe. We all now speak our own unintelligible languages. A blank canvas for a face… silence is creeping in, internalized in my memory, my intellectual processes. Silence, like a mortal disease, spreads throughout the body, el cuerpo y alma, weakening the core of the ego, the capabilities of your intelect. And written words no pueden contener mis gritos de auxilio. And written words are like a safe space-trap in which I hide… and written words… written words are not the same. It’s been a while since the last time I spoke and I actually said everything I had to say. It’s been a while since I don’t doubt every word that comes out of my mouth and my ability to reach someone the way I want to reach him or her. Years have passed… Silencio. El túnel se alarga cada vez más. I used to see the end of this. And I am patient but some days, like today, I cannot see the light at the end. Somedays I just have to give up and do what you can do best when you can’t articulate what’s on your mind. Somedays, like today, I just have to cry. But I have no tears left in me. And that’s when I get scared…. porque no sé cuánto más puede la mente, el alma, o la mierda que uno es… no sé cuanto puede uno aguantar. Y no sé si es sólo en mí que esto sucede. Does it happen to any of you out there? Do you feel the same way? Or am I just truly an idiot? Al final de esta historia no hay luz resplandeciente waiting for me at the end. Y si está ahí y es transparente, today I am not gonna try to be hopeful… I am not gonna try to be patient. I am simply NOT GONNA TRY. I don’t care. From now on I’ll be quiet.. or quieter … How much silence can one person take?

Un día del cielo cayeron cintas adhesivas de colores que pintaron fronteras y colores de banderas. Dios dijo entonces: “Santos Cielos, ¿qué he hecho?” y el ángel rojo le suplicó no deshacer su equivocación y al final lo convenció. Entonces, el ángel rojo tomó una pluma y lápices de colores para diferenciar los trocitos de tierra que antes era sólo una. Con el dedo pulgar separó la pangea y en un volcán invisible volcó toda su erupción de miseria, cuya lava no salpicó a todo el mundo. Hizo llover también poder en zonas donde las nubes o banderas cubrían la visión misericordiosa de la gente. Y para cerrar su ritual de destrucción puso un anuncio gigante de For Sale, se vende todo y por todo él cobra comisión. Dios, al despertar, miró lo que había hecho y se lamentó. “¿Cómo pudiste hacer esto?”, “Tú me creaste, no fui yo.”

Nadadoras nadan en una piscina de recortes

de cosmopolitans, tú y tv novelas.

Cantan a coro su nuevo himno:

mi nariz es muy pequeña

así como mis pechos,

y mis pompis han sufrido

el efecto de la gravedad.

Nadadora,

nada por delante,

nada por detrás.

En su nube de comparación

la negación de sus cuerpos

y su aparente falta de belleza

son imposibles de ahuyentar.

Si una nadadora supiera que ella  es perfecta,

y que su ideal estético, sólo estrategia de ventas,

colgaría la billetera de la que lucran los ladrones

que regocijan al robarse su identidad.

 

 

Carta de Fabián

Hace tanto tiempo que no bailan las estrellas en mis ojos cuando el alcohol hace efecto. Ni el piso se mueve de un lado al otro, leeentameeente. Necesito un remezón. De esos que trae la salsa a la vida, de esos que trae el merengue y una buena conversación. Estoy tan lejos, lejos de casa, con los años me siento un poco mejor aquí en el remoto culo del mundo, en el último lugar escondido del planeta. Verás, de la ciudad algo se extraña. Se extraña la vida, las luces incansables, las bebidas indebidas, las noches hasta tarde, el baile, el cielo gris, los buses, la vida bohemia y aquella canción que cantábamos tú y yo. ¿Recuerdas cruzar las calles conmigo, pasar por aquél quiosco de la esquina cantando la canción de moda que odiabas pero cantándola al cabo a todo pulmón? ¿Recuerdas, Aurelia, a la niña de al lado que al colegio iba todos los días y pasaba con un niño uniformado, el que creíamos que era su hermano mayor? ¿Ha crecido, ha engordado? Ahora recuerdo que su familia se mudó… aquí…. se mudó aquí donde todos nos vamos. Aurelia, pasan los años… y pasan los años sin ti… De la ciudad, lo que más extraño… es llevarte a pasear por la plaza. De la ciudad… lo que más extraño es sacarte a bailar hasta salir el sol y ver el sol salir contigo, a tu lado, y recibir al alba con tu voz. Aurelia, llevo la mirada fija a la cruz que marqué hace años en el calendario, y que tú marcaste en el tuyo. Pronto llegas, con el sol, a compartir conmigo el aburrimiento, sin ciudad, sin salsa, quizá aburriéndonos, pero juntos… aburriéndonos juntos tú y yo.

Fabián

El Paseo de la Libélula

Al costado de mi sien derecha, una libélula color de hoja de otoño va zumbándome una historia.

Los campos verdes se abren con el recorrido de mis llantas que se están acostumbrando a la falta de asfalto.

Detengo el carro en medio de la colina, le suelto el freno y lo dejo ir.

La libélula escapó junto conmigo y me sigue zumbando la misma historia.

Le digo que se calle y no me hace caso. Le digo que al menos se detenga un tiempo a aprender otros cuentos y luego venga a visitar.

 Pero de tanto zumbar, la libélula no escucha. Mi mano se eleva a la altura exacta en donde el pensamiento se genera y a la misma velocidad recorre el espacio entre su palma y mi cabeza.

Entre mis dedos, la libélula se siente aplastada. Poco a poco lucha por zumbar más. Pero al primer intento, le robé las alas.

En la colina no hay nada, sólo el silencio de la libélula y el sonido de la ausencia, y ya sin ella, un poco de paz.

8:41 p.m.

15-2-2008

La Protesta Coloquial

Salieron las señoras de la esquina, las chismosas, las que ventilan su casa por la ventana y de paso, tu vida. Salieron de su casa a resonar con su voz, el rugido de sus caceloras. “Estamos demandando”, dijeron, “un poco de arroz para los niños”, como quien pide una limosna de su propio bolsillo. Salió la tía Irene porque el marido se le murió, o eso dice ella para evitar decir que se fugó, de todos modos, lo da por muerto, y  como así lo trata, eso es lo que importa. Y lo que importa también es que se largó llevándose toda la plata que guardaba bajo del cojín del sillón. Salió la tía Azucena que obscenamente gritaba a cualquiera que se podía meter sus políticas por donde no les dé el sol. “¡Yo lo que quiero es comer, porque tengo hambre, señor!” Y el señor le dijo, antes de correrla, que eso no podía ser porque la estabilidad del mercado alimenticio, dependía de su mano de obra barata. “¡Usted come de mi miseria!” ” No. Nos comen a todos, Azucena, a todos los que no hacemos las reglas.”

Antes del Desayuno

Pedacitos incompletos de historias inconclusas forman la imagen de Julián cuando se mira al espejo. Se arregla la corbata, piensa en Valeria y se abotona el botón en la manga izquierda de la camisa. Listo para trabajar pero no para seguir viviendo. Su esposa, Clara,  lo mira haciéndose la dormida entre las cubiertas marrones de su cama. Julián sabe que ella está despierta. Decirte que estás despierta sería como burlarse de tus ganas de no estarlo, ni de volver a estarlo jamás. Clara también piensa en Valeria, en el tiempo que estuvo presente en la vida de los dos, en la forma en como Julián la esperaba, y en el amor que él sentía por ella. Me hubiera gustado verlos juntos, me hubiera gustado verla. Clara deja de ver la imágen de Julián en el espejo y se voltea entre sus sábana para encontrarse mirando ahora a la cuna de Valeria… y es inútil, las dos imágenes guardan su recuerdo. Julián se inclina sobre su cama y besa los cabellos de su esposa. Chau, amor. Clara continúa su silencio habitual. Empiezo a olvidar tu voz. Clara no dice nada. Su esposo toca sus hombros. Otra vez, no. La cuna blanca entra en el reflejo de una lágrima. Julián se aleja de sus sábanas y sale de la habitación. Chau, Julián… pero no te escuchó.

Pueblo Humano

Que reine la humanidad!

Que tiempo ya lleva sometida a la explotación.

Que llueva en libertad sin que el agua se convierta

en un producto inaccesible a los que viven en la miseria!

El mundo es de todos,

¿es que no se dan cuenta

que las líneas que nos dividen

son trazos políticos

de poderes económicos ya casi incontenibles?

Las murallas en los mapas,

en realidad, son invisibles,

inexistentes, de vil separación

de los pueblos unidos,

que son sólo uno,

pueblo “Tierra”,

pueblo “Humano”,

sin fronteras

con una sola bandera

blanca de tregua.

Y cantamos en el himno,

la única frase

que nos permite respirar

“Paz, un sólo pueblo bajo el cielo,

sobre el mundo,

seres humanos en libertad”

Experimental/ La Historia de Marcos

Marcos, la calle no te alimenta pero tienes que seguir trabajando. Hay que pagar los gastos, la comida de tu hermana que sufre de algo que hasta ahora no entiendes por más que el médico te lo explica. Ay, Marcos! Qué jodida la vida, no?

Viene un tren, un señor de oficina que mira su reloj y se sube sin mirarte. Recita tu letanía; la ruta, las paradas del bus que se ha llevado tu vida y a la vez es lo único para lo que te alcanzan las aspiraciones y tu realismo. Una vez más, quizá alguien suba de nuevo. Nadie va a subir, Marcos, no seas huevón… acá no hay ni mierda de gente.

Te sigue llevando un animal metálico como hace un año. Hace un año alucinabas ser aquél tren que te pasó por encima, el que se subió hace un minuto, o uno parecido, total todos parecen lo mismo. Marcos mira al hombre vestido como para reunión a las 10 y hablando en su celular mucho más moderno que el tuyo, ingenuamente de la forma más pública y estúpida en que alguien en estas zonas de la ciudad podría hablar. Hace un año se subió quizá él, quizá otro, pero daba lo mismo. Escuchaste de pronto que la compañía de buses era el lugar donde trabajaba y no supiste si odiarlo o agradecerle. No supiste si morder la mano que te da de comer… y a la vez te retuerce pero bueno, eso nada tiene que ver. Para ser un escolar, nada mal era tu chamba. No lo odiaste ni le agradeciste, y él tampoco te vió pasar por su costado, ni cuando le cobraste.

Y cuando colgó viste como miraba las calles grises, la basura tirada y dentro de su saco podías sentir la fuerza ahogada y reprimida del grito que se asomaba en sus ojos. Comprendiste, Marcos, que él también no sabía si odiar o si morder a la voz con la que había hablado. Esto es una cadena de supervivencia, Marcos, no eres especial.

Entonces, Marcos, se sintió menos solo. Desde hace un año sigue trepando a la misma bala metálica que recorre la ciudad y ve la misma sensación del hombre-tren, el mismo grito asomando en la pupila de la señora, las mismas ganas de querer romper el canasto del mandado de la muchacha con uniforme. Marcos trepa a su bus desauciado y sabe que lo único que prende esta locomotora es la sangre hirviente de sus tripulantes, el grito silente de los que no muerden a sus amos.

Corre.

Latidos extremos rugiendo a unos centimetros bajo mi rostro. Mis pasos ya siguen corriendo entre el bosque de arena, jardín arenoso. La niebla, el pasto, las aves de muertos. Le temo a la sombra que canta melancolía constante, pasados diabólicos y espejismos circunstanciales. Por 200 días, fui presa gravitacional de su esencia magnética. Hoy le rompí los esquemas, sus reglas del juego, del universo creado en su maldad. Me fui. Le dejé las cadenas en el piso, vacías de mí. Lo que le queda, el recuerdo, ni siquiera es lo que fui ni lo que soy. Las horas que pasaron entre las dos fueron las del cristal distorsionado. No te creo. Me fui.  Llevo horas huyendo. Esta vez no quiero volver a ti.

*Is milk intended for human consumption, or for baby cow-consumption? Think about it. Every mamal drinks the breast milk of its own species, right?  well… of course we can’t do that our entire lives…. but isn’t it weird that technically we are stealing the milk of another species? (I love milk!) * As there is technological progress in the material world surrounding people (not necessarily progress in society), new inventions become necessities required for survival. Do we really need to add more items to the list of requirements for survival? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stick to the basics, at least in the material world (breathing, eating, sleeping, etc)? And work, not to pay for this new needs but to cover the first ones and have more free time for actual evolution, progress of the mind and the spirit (arts, literature, meditation, taking time to smell the roses, thinkikng, dancing, singing)? .. says the girl who has a facebook profile…. * If I attach a picture of a crocodile to a 3 cent t-shirt, does that mean that the t-shirt is worth 80 dollars more than its original price? Why is paying an absurd amount of money for an item that is not worth it, socially rewarded? If you pay 10 dollars for a regular t-shirt and 90 dollars for a brand name t-shirt, and both look the same except for the tag or the logo on them, is the quality of the more expensive one 9 times better than the cheaper one? Is it going to last 9 times what the other will? Is the 80 dollar difference between the two shirts going to make a difference in the salary of the person who has made it or her or his condition of work? Is one better than the other because of the brand? Is the brand an abstract idea attached to the product? Is this idea worth spending money you could use for better purposes? Ultimately, are you being mocked  or psychologically manipulated as a consumer?  * Do artists, writers, etc… sabotage their own lives in order to experience different sides of it and have something to write about? (Unconsciously, of course) … says the writer (it sounds pretentious to call myself a writer but I can’t deny what I am. Anyway,  I am not saying I am a good one…)  

* Do people who want to learn about life only through literature consider the possiblity of maybe going out and experiencing life beyond the 4 walls of their rooms? Is reading about how it feels to live more important than living? Should a well balanced life involve some kind of crazyness and randomness? Is a poem about love worth more than to experience love itself?

En Tiempos de Tregua

En tiempos de tregua con la eternidad, el pedazo de tierra en frente de mí ha decidido estar en paz. Ojalá los rostros ajenos no se atrevan a cruzar mi camino y quizá pueda entender las nuevas formas del destino para tratarme con bondad. He escuchado risas en los últimos instantes, he escuchado en ellas la palabra libertad. Bebo de la amistad que nace delirante y sin sentido acompañándome al caminar

Catarsis

Hay momentos–por lo general nocturnos–en que la emoción se me escapa de las manos. Entonces, tengo dos opciones: gritar, o escribir. Por lo general recurro a la última, pues siendo estos momentos por lo general nocturnos, gritar sería desconsiderado para con los vecinos. Entonces escribo como si las yemas de los dedos pensaran por sí solas, como si en ellas explotara la sensación de vivir, o sentir. Escribo y lloro un poco, y a veces escribo cosas malas, pero honestas… honestas en el momento en que las escribo. Después de la catarsis y el desahogo emocional, que duran a veces segundos y a veces horas, la emoción se va poco a poco, se duerme, descansa hasta la noche siguiente. Al parecer, guardo un reloj en el alma con alarma. Llegan las diez y es hora de no poder más y dejarme perder entre las letras y dejar que se pierda la ansiedad. Eso es lo único que me altera los nervios. Los sentimientos se pueden manejar, pero la ansiedad… La ansiedad es lo que hace que uno se quiera deshacer de esos sentimientos para que no duelan más. Escribir desteje los sueños, los dolores, y llorar los libera. Al final del proceso, todo está dormido, los sueños, la noche, y las ganas de querer arrancar la sensación. Entonces duermo casi en paz.  

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