Best wants

Quitapenas

What i saw tonight

Sunlight

I would like to tell you that sunlight sometimes burns and makes me disoriented.

Today I felt serenity, though, and it was beautiful for that moment.

I felt that, despite any crisis on any level, any border, any language, we were together.

The light was there in my palm and I smiled.

Humanity was shameless and I could see through your eyes in a timeless sight.

I was always there with you, and I didn’t know it.

I had the feeling that I didn’t need to resist anymore.

What a calming sound your voice in my side.

And some time passed until it was no more than an intention to write.

To tell you that everything is fine somewhere inside me, that is going to be alright.

Little note

I’d like to create a poem-cover, something that you could use, something that you could have to warm your cold nights. A poem to clean your face from crying, a poem to heal your wounds, a poem to feel the smell of rain, to feel the breeze of a windy day, a sunny day, the salt of the sea in your skin. A poem to feel my frantic love, my explosive happiness when it comes, or my waitings when I knew you were almost there, on the other side of my window. A poem to describe the fulfillment of your presence for my full-of-holes existence, that balsam and calm weight of your sight for me. The feeling that we were infinite and I needed nothing else, than eveything would come around Us, and just around what we were.

But I just have this, so please take it, please. And know that it’s a great pain that sometimes comes back in violent waves, and it’s unfair, and I’m sorry. I’m talking with myself, and we are wrong and partial, and we know it. And we want to live somehow, and appreciate the rest of it, as now the world is no more around that axis that existed that was Us, and we are tilted and unstable.

So I’ll write it when it comes, but my mind it’s numb this days, I can’t promise any rate of inspiration in a dry world.

Closing thoughts

I’d like to tell you what is all of this, but Dream, I’m afraid I’m just as blind as you are (or even more, I think you have a better perspective). If I could take the story from the beginning, I’d repeat that first moment, remember?

I was blacked out by the feeling of an avalanche running down my body, from lips to the center of everything. You were a shadow, and apparition, a lucid dream under the rain. I had my face pointing up. I was feeling the droplets falling down from the dark. I opened my eyes and there you were, lightning and clouds twisting reality, melting my core, asking for more.

So I’d take that story and repeat and repeat, stop and rewind. I’d look at my eyes from yours to, hopefully, understand where I am.

But it wasn’t just that, Dream, there where so many other chapters contained in one year, in less than one, in maybe a month. If you count, actually, the time, I was in you maybe a week, maybe less than a day? It’s inexplicable and beautiful.

And I was for you, Dream, a sentinel, a fanatic, and later, a drowsy poet,

And I went through so many rough paths and discovered that I wasn’t. That I was holding so many voids and broken clocks. And I was already so far, so lost.

Everything could go then crazy, but I was safe in you, my dear Dream. And I was in you even when awake, even when not sleeping at all dealing with the former life of a rational man.

And one crisis after another, but I could not stop the pull, and no one could.

I enjoyed every bit of your sight, every flying moment, every laugh, every harmless fight, every absurd game. You where the universe where I left my heart while asleep. Dream is moving place, Dream is daring love.

And waking up after a bad night, destroyed crystals, I’d be still warm, but lacking something vital, vulnerable. So I tried to go back and fix it, but I messed up every time.

Then I’d Dream less and less. Just nightmares or emptiness when awake. But nothing could stop this, the fire consuming a mountain, a city, and even the ocean. It was done, I was consumed by it, my land was dying. I needed the rain. I still do.

So every time I could fell asleep, I’d go wherever I Had; wherever I Had a Heart; wherever I Had a Light; wherever my face and the rain falling down my lips; whenever the eyes and the dark and lightning.

I remember many things that I’m afraid of loosing, dear Dream. I wish you could write for me how you melted the ice, how you appeared on my nights, what you thought of my fire. I wish I could come back so much time to be in that, your infinite realm from the beginning of all, I wish I were there every time to avoid the broken vases and dizzy lives. I wish I could be better, and sleep to not wake up again in this dry land, and the end were the start instead, where a weightless dream would reveal the mystery of love and green extensions of life.

Things, thougths

Things, objects that don’t leave me. Things that suggest moments, feelings, images, smells, sounds. Scars maybe, maybe trash? A star in cloudless night? A falling star and cold wind. Fire, smoke, the sound of a river like a multitude of voices reciting infinite poems. Rocks and swirling water, maybe. A little cat, and object that makes me company. Suddenly the weight of a century closes my eyes in a painful expression.

This objects, this things everywhere, why are they there and what is their meaning? If I take a star and squeeze it, will the answer be revealed in a sad song? Will it slip from my hand and fly away like a scared firefly? If I grab this little heart and kiss it, where that kiss will go? To some ocean, to become a wave that someone tomorrow on in a hundred years will see caressing the sand? Objects, clues, buttons, keys, parts of a puzzle. If I see the flower, and the light, and the shadow projected in my hand, did I create then a piece of it inside me? A block of memory maybe. A statue, a painting, or a plant that will need to be watered with thoughts once in a while. Are this objects, then, in me? Or maybe I use them to store, to hold, to look inside instead. And then I’m an object of someone’s thoughts and I didn’t even notice. And when that person forgets I’ll vanish to become a sigh, a vibration, the sound trapped in a jazz note of a remote saxophone, the passion of a second that will bounce in a drum and sink in an unknown heart.

Pensamientos suicidas de un sábado a media noche

Las luces, caóticas corriendo por las vigas
vuelven a su punto de fuga
para explotar nuevamente, silenciosas y ágiles

Estoy perdido de nuevo en las corrientes del mar
un presente que corre con ellas

Las miro migrar de un lado a otro, fascinado

La realidad se encrispa tras un velo.

Intimidado y estúpido

El momento que pasó es el momento de mi derrota, pues lo miro desde lejos.

El peso de pensamientos oscuros.

La asfixia de pensamientos-huída.

Ya los conozco,
están siempre esperando por mí.

Me abrazan sin permiso
y necesito tanto un abrazo.

Mi debilidad es en sí misma símbolo de muerte.
Ideas circulares que vagan por allí,
por mi espalda.

Idea de mí que está muriendo.
Dolor, relámpago, y viento.

Te dejo ir, pero quieres llevarme contigo.
Me quiero ir, dejar de resistir.
Dejar de resistir.
Dejar
de
resistir.

Entonces es el momento de partir.
No me sigas.
Déjame viajar por la noche con mis sombras lunares.
Déjame flotar por la luna con mis derrotas nocturnas.
Déjame deslizarme hacia una hoja vacía,
y llenarla de carga para vaciarme de lágrimas.

Carga de mí, de ver a la gente,
de verme reflejado en sus ojos,
de estar enfermo de vivir,
de ver lo ojos y fascinarme.

Y mientras consumir el tiempo en un patíbulo de aeropuerto
en un asiento incómodo
vasija que mis manos han hecho
vasija que estoy cansado de quebrar
porque ha muerto, sorpresa
algo que no puedo explicar
pero que lo es todo
todo

No te acerques a mí
tengo tiña,
estoy tan incierto.

No.

Vive, tú vive. Hoy no pertenezco.

Pensamientos suicidas de un sábado a media noche
son mis amigos
mis huídas
mir razones.

Llego tarde y camino en círculos
en reversa.

De qué sirve mi existencia.

Pensamientos suicidas:
no soy engranaje, soy aire que oxida tus piezas
no soy engranaje, soy aire que oxida tus piezas
soy aire
que oxida
tus piezas.

What music may be

• 

Music surrounds us, outside. Caverns sometimes resonate bringing us memories engraved in stone. Sometimes we go there and feel amused by the shadows that today could mean something that we didn’t see.

Music also lives inside us. Melody or rythm, or both in perfect armony. Pieces that join as patches of an old road, creating a huge blanket that covers us with a trembling light when we close our eyes. In summer, though, we need to take off that weight and leave it under the sun. So don’t leave it in a box in the attic, take it out and let it get more colors. If you do that it won’t silently absorb what we want to let go. It’s important to do this, because it could loose pieces that would be really hard to recover later.

Music can also be a really dark place. If you feel that; if it happens to you that you feel in a hole, and you cry, and makes you sadder; or if it reminds you that you’re actually sad inside, let it be. Remember that it is you who is the interpreter, that what happens is an expression of something deeper, something worth looking at. Of course, you can always say ‘stop!’ and look for music that gives you light instead… or just go out and put yourself under the sun! Even better, put yourself under a tree that has oranges in a bright day. But please listen to the branches moving with the wind, the small insects around, birds, and flowers. That is also music, you know, that is also you.

Desencuentros de salas vacías

La habitación, la cocina. Una olla hirviendo con sopa de sobre. De fondo Getz Gilberto.

Duermen en algún paraíso los días y vemos sólo momentos de espera y silencio. Es la medicina que aplaca el dolor pero la vida con ello. Nos vemos entonces en breves ventanas por las que ambos miramos al mismo tiempo, de vez en cuando, sólo cuando coincidimos. Mientras, camino una y otra vez por las escaleras de la sapiencia, empezando este o aquel proyecto sin mayor motivación o necesidad. Sabes, es porque rehuyo las tenazas de la siguiente reunión. Las reuniones me parecen en sí mismas un teatro ingenuo de palabras e intenciones, aunque útiles al reunir, sólo al reunir.

Este día empezó tan tarde que me siento culpable de despertar. Así, transcurre como comer lentamente un postre sin hambre y saciado de azúcar. Glotonería que sé es un privilegio. O quizás no, quizás debiera ser normal, pero estamos cagados. Debiéramos estar produciendo.

Coexistimos, y un pequeño silencio me recuerda que no es para siempre. Dime entonces, ¿vendrán por nosotros los motivos? Un ataque de esperanza que desgarra y nos hace llorar. Una revelación que no necesitara de nuestra voluntad, caída del cielo de Santiago. ¿Pasará una semana más y sin mayor novedad volveré al otro mundo, que es este mismo pero no existe fuera de una pantalla para tí? ¿Me verás entonces, un niño volando entre ideas y sueños, amores fallidos, clases en inglés, buscando eternamente el gato que se pondrá en sus hombros? Vaga y única idea de mi mismo que tienes, bella durmiente. No hay idea falsa, pero te quiero advertir, no es como parece. He tratado de explicarme, pero ni yo frente a tí ahora, revolviendo esta cacerola de agua bullente, puedo mostrarte cómo se siente mirar por mi ventana sin esperar a verte mañana. Ni puedo realmente entender cómo se siente despedirse una vez más y verme desaparecer tras las puertas automáticas de un aeropuerto.

Pero no todo es así, tan de casa vacía por las tardes allá. Pero será así seguramente de vez en cuando. Otras veces reiré o reiremos mirándonos por una ventana. Otras veces necesitaré un abrazo que no llegará, o tú buscarás memorias de mí tocando tu puerta antes de entrar. Ya, sabes, mejor dejemos por ahora este silencio cubrir la casa, el reloj marcando sus segundos, y quizás algo de música para aplacar el vacío. La sopa está lista, el día está frío, hoy nada será definitivo.