Es difícil escribir estas cosas, muchas veces. Tenemos una relación tan ambigua ya, que es complicado decir algo concreto; más que nada algo congruente. No sé ya si tiene sentido alguno felicitar a la gente por el año nuevo. Me consume la idea de todas estas convenciones sociales. Y junto al feliz año nuevo guardo un no tan feliz aniversario de muerte (sabes lo que digo). Y habita en mi piel la nostalgia de los años viejos, que siempre parecen mejores (me siento como una vieja), pero deseo desearte un feliz año nuevo. Deseo que el año viejo se lleve la nostalgia (se vaya tras de ti, a tu viejo gobierno de difuntos y flores); deseo que el año nuevo nos haga sentir libres, porque ya somos libres, pero se nos ha olvidado. Siempre hemos sido libres. Te deseo lo mejor de la vida junto al año nuevo; no sé porque, y la verdad no me importa saber por qué. Tal vez sea que lo poco que compartimos de este año tan viejo, me dejó algo, algo valioso.
sábado, 31 de diciembre de 2011
domingo, 25 de diciembre de 2011
Disintegration
The party was over.
The past few days had been terribly beautiful. Fragments of past invading current nights and days. A warm afternoon underneath an orange sky filled with the nostalgic chanting of the wind; the delightful and sensual gaze of alcohol attempting to seduce her again; a long morning in a familiar bed, dressed in white sheets, yellow eyes and playful hands.
It was Christmas' eve and the party was over.
Back home, she spent a long time reading news that didn't really concern her, but what's she going to do? It's very hard to break a pattern, it's hard to dissolve a bad habit. No emotion comes to mind. Maybe emptiness again, but not really. After all this months of working on it, she may finally understand that it's probably useless to give importace to so many things...
She now knows that she is ready to start the novel she has tried to work on for months now. Words might flow now. Truth might flow now.
She hands herself a glass. There's a big bottle of tequila right in front of her. She smiles, and says: No. She fills the glass with water.
Happy Christmas, she says outloud. She sights. And breathes.
Disintegrates.
The past few days had been terribly beautiful. Fragments of past invading current nights and days. A warm afternoon underneath an orange sky filled with the nostalgic chanting of the wind; the delightful and sensual gaze of alcohol attempting to seduce her again; a long morning in a familiar bed, dressed in white sheets, yellow eyes and playful hands.
It was Christmas' eve and the party was over.
Back home, she spent a long time reading news that didn't really concern her, but what's she going to do? It's very hard to break a pattern, it's hard to dissolve a bad habit. No emotion comes to mind. Maybe emptiness again, but not really. After all this months of working on it, she may finally understand that it's probably useless to give importace to so many things...
She now knows that she is ready to start the novel she has tried to work on for months now. Words might flow now. Truth might flow now.
She hands herself a glass. There's a big bottle of tequila right in front of her. She smiles, and says: No. She fills the glass with water.
Happy Christmas, she says outloud. She sights. And breathes.
Disintegrates.
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