.__As I turn off my eyes__.
I turned off my eyes and I tried to turn off my life just for a while. I started to feel the deep, and the deep was endless. I found my thoughts were the persistance of my memory, and even when I tried to forget, I was emerged into the sickness of analisis. My eyes shut the doors of the world and the world cought me from the inside, and it complained about everytime I said no to the world. I didn´t understood I was saying no to myself.
At least I knew I wasn´t death yet, perphaps I was there for some reason. Could I hear my beats and my breath by turning off my eyes? As they were walking with me, the wind whispered words of power, and the sea spoke out loud the tales about those women who stood at the shore waiting for the answears to come. And the sand was pushing me with the tide and the sun was pulling me to the other side of the globe.
When I turned off my eyes I knew I needed to come out with that step and blend myself with the landscape I was crossing by. But it was not necessarily a landscape, it was the discourse written by the world to the ones who took some time to have a look at it. Soon, I felt I ought to abandoned my seat and that I was made to be part of that poem.
Then I climbed up the mauntain where the cementary was waving goodbye to the orange moon. The breeze was melted at the touch of my neck and the warmth came with the seaguls at the end of the day. Death was speaking everywhere and life was defending herself with all kinds of metaphors. Some dancers were showing the strenght of their bodies, the music was everywhere hiding the silence of the corps, and the children were laughing as they run through the veins of the world.
How can I enjoy, and how can I protest, how can I love, how can I live and die, everything in the same head, in the same brain, with the same heart and the same body, the whole thing in the very same sunset, at the very same moment, while I stop seeing, while I feel and live...
...in the midst of the month of death...
...and the eyes turned on the words
that belong to the other side of their vision.
M.R.
...and the eyes turned on the words
that belong to the other side of their vision.
M.R.
posted by ojos que escriben @ 10:12 AM
2 Comments:
"El hombre nunca puede saber qué debe querer, porque vive sólo una vida y no tiene modo de compararla con sus vidas precedentes ni de enmendarla en sus vidas posteriores.
(...)No existe posibilidad alguna de comprobar cuál de las decisiones es la mejor, porque no existe comparación alguna, el hombre lo vive todo a la primera y sin preparación. Como si un actor representase su obra sin ningún tipo de ensayo. Pero ¿Qué valor puede tener la vida si el primer ensayo para vivir es ya la vida misma? Por eso la vida parece un boceto. Pero ni siquiera un boceto es la palabra precisa, porque un boceto es siempre un borrador de algo, la preparación para un cuadro, mientras que el boceto para nuestra vida es un boceto para nada, un borrador sin cuadro…”
Milan Kundera
No podemos escapar a nosotros mismos, podemos disfrazarnos pero detras de las máscaras conversamos con el aire. Y si mi inglés no fuera tan patán le contestaría algo así como: datslaif y no modo y tambien gracias porque es asquerosamente sublime estar vivo. Gracias por el atole y la buena vibra. Me hacía falta. Suerte mi querida Maravilla Rutilante.
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