Siempre tuve una cierta pasion por todo lo creativo. En cierta serie animada se dijo alguna vez que la música era el mayor de los logros humanos. El lector estará de acuerdo con que si no el mejor , ciertamente el mas original.
Ese día salí a la calle para encontrarme con que no habia taxistas, ni policias de tránsito, ni compañeros de clases y mucho menos profesores. Me encontré con una realidad alterna- la cuáñ ahora explico por la falta de sueño en conjunción con una pobre alimentación-que me mostraba destellos y carne moldeada, no humanos , sino entidades de carne molida que resplandecía.Lo primero en venir a mi mente fue la palabra"angel", seguida de un sinfin de imágenes de angeles, connotaciones, palabras,significados. Todo esto tomo apenas una micra de segundo.
La racionalizacion de este evento me llevó a la aceptacion del mismo.
Cuando vi esas apariciones no pensé en la Santa Iglesia, ni en un ser supremo.
Curiosamente pensé en un blanco absoluto. Era del tipo de blanco no encontrado en estuches de oleos ni en hojas de oficina. Era un blanco virginal.
Por un segundo, el cuál se prolongaría a la eternidad, esa fuerza, esa visión horrorifica de limpieza y esterilidad total detuvo el tiempo, la marea , el curso lógico y hastiante de las cosas.
Todos mis temores se condensaron en uno enorme, el terror absoluto, el cual dilató mis pupilas con tal voracidad y magnitud que se expandieron bien afuera del contorno de mi ser.
Los circulos antimateria provenientes de mi cara se llenaron del blanco total y ese fue el final de toda materia y pensamiento.
Lo ultimo perceptible fue la sintesis completa de toda musica y sonidos, lo mas puro.
Al igual que el blanco es la union de todos los colores, el tono final, que hizo eco en el vacio eterno, era la suma de todas las composiciones hechas y por hacer.
Lo único que alcanzo a escapar a mis voraces ojos fue una lagrima causada por el remordimiento de no haber cerrado los ojos cuando todo esto comenzo.
Samstag, 11. August 2007
Montag, 16. Juli 2007
I don't know anymore
" El hombre no conoce lo malo que es hasta que no ha tratado de esforzarse por ser bueno".
Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963) Escritor británico.
He looked up in search of police helicopters and found relief in a blue sky, even though his heart rate must have been well over 170 bpm. One could notice he was hiding from his heavy breathing that indicated some sort of chase, and the suspicious lack of sweat on his forehead or anywhere else. It was as if the sweat was hiding along with the young man, all in an effort to survive.
He replayed the scenes from his miraculous escape and all the different dangers he had avoided, giving himself courage to continue this challenge and putting an odd antipathic smile on his clear face.
A long time passed. Time seemed to have stopped. The grocery store manager was still argueing with the clerk over some missplaced guava extract cans, the little boy holding his mother's hand was still poking his nose while the unattending mother read Cosmopolitan.
Nothing changed, but it didn't stay the same way either.
They all continued their activities in slow motion, but their faces had changed, they where dim, obscured by heavy rainclounds, and in this light their eyes looked awkward.
The fleeing young man, hidden behind a mountain of baking powder tin cans, observed with terror the rest of the store. His gaze flew from the small holes between the cans passing the shelves with the cereals and granola bars, opening up into the scene from the mother with child, bouncing on different bright coloured practically floored items until arriving at the manager and clerk , who stood in front of the door.
One might believe that in this instand all the young man could think about is if they, his chasers, would come in the store and find him. And one would have been right, if it hadn't been for the strange change of mood he was experiencing.
A hot rush travelled his body, his vision was darkened, he slowed down, his heart slowed down and it did into an unfamiliar beat, one that follows a melody rather than the need for fresh oxygen around the body. He couldn't see anything but the shelves and the faces of those four people in that store. He felt his feet covered in hot burning sand, he felt a dark warm night in the swamps, he smelled the foulness of carcasses left to rot in the sun. And he looked. He watched the heads of those people turn to him, he saw their eyes, he saw their skin, he felt their warm breaths on his naked body. He heard the little boy speak to him from beyond with a voice of ages past and whirling of insects, he felt the inmediate authority of this boy, the total horror of his deep knowledge of everyone. He heard the roar of bees coming out of the mouth of the little boy, he could only observe as the eyes of the boy emmited a cold and sterile gaze upon him.
In this dark cloud of fear the remaining faces spoke also. They told him things without sense while, at the same time, the noise of their different conversations mixed and deafened him from anything else, even smell, it deprived him of any kind of thought, the inmense sound filled him as sand from old regions of the earth would have filled his every cavity, leaving no space for him, expelling him from his body, pounding on his flesh from every side. He sang from the bottom of that sea of sand:
Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963) Escritor británico.
He looked up in search of police helicopters and found relief in a blue sky, even though his heart rate must have been well over 170 bpm. One could notice he was hiding from his heavy breathing that indicated some sort of chase, and the suspicious lack of sweat on his forehead or anywhere else. It was as if the sweat was hiding along with the young man, all in an effort to survive.
He replayed the scenes from his miraculous escape and all the different dangers he had avoided, giving himself courage to continue this challenge and putting an odd antipathic smile on his clear face.
A long time passed. Time seemed to have stopped. The grocery store manager was still argueing with the clerk over some missplaced guava extract cans, the little boy holding his mother's hand was still poking his nose while the unattending mother read Cosmopolitan.
Nothing changed, but it didn't stay the same way either.
They all continued their activities in slow motion, but their faces had changed, they where dim, obscured by heavy rainclounds, and in this light their eyes looked awkward.
The fleeing young man, hidden behind a mountain of baking powder tin cans, observed with terror the rest of the store. His gaze flew from the small holes between the cans passing the shelves with the cereals and granola bars, opening up into the scene from the mother with child, bouncing on different bright coloured practically floored items until arriving at the manager and clerk , who stood in front of the door.
One might believe that in this instand all the young man could think about is if they, his chasers, would come in the store and find him. And one would have been right, if it hadn't been for the strange change of mood he was experiencing.
A hot rush travelled his body, his vision was darkened, he slowed down, his heart slowed down and it did into an unfamiliar beat, one that follows a melody rather than the need for fresh oxygen around the body. He couldn't see anything but the shelves and the faces of those four people in that store. He felt his feet covered in hot burning sand, he felt a dark warm night in the swamps, he smelled the foulness of carcasses left to rot in the sun. And he looked. He watched the heads of those people turn to him, he saw their eyes, he saw their skin, he felt their warm breaths on his naked body. He heard the little boy speak to him from beyond with a voice of ages past and whirling of insects, he felt the inmediate authority of this boy, the total horror of his deep knowledge of everyone. He heard the roar of bees coming out of the mouth of the little boy, he could only observe as the eyes of the boy emmited a cold and sterile gaze upon him.
In this dark cloud of fear the remaining faces spoke also. They told him things without sense while, at the same time, the noise of their different conversations mixed and deafened him from anything else, even smell, it deprived him of any kind of thought, the inmense sound filled him as sand from old regions of the earth would have filled his every cavity, leaving no space for him, expelling him from his body, pounding on his flesh from every side. He sang from the bottom of that sea of sand:
"Tout change entre nous, un jour Je t'aime, le suivant J'ai trouv'e quelqun neuf, plus jeune,plus belle.
Le lendemain tu as an enfant, et ton mari, tu ne l'aimes comme hier, tu as un nouveau entretien, une personne que tu croies t'aimera toujours.
Mais sa change aussie.
Ton fils trouvera une femme et partira avec elle, sans dire: "aurrevoir mamon, merci pour tout"
Et le ciecle recommencera autre fois. "
Para mi amigo Marius
Mittwoch, 27. Juni 2007
I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.
Another year has ended and left us with the question : Is this me?
Because we remember being different and we don't know how come we've changed.
Amusement appart, welcome work, still kisses with salive. This is what it feels like for a boy.
As someone somewhere said: I'm a 30 year old boy.
We keep getting older, and even though I look forward to it, I can't help but feeling a bit scared, for I know now, opposed to a few years ago, that for example, I won't be a pilot, or an astonaut, or president, or mathematician ( well , I kinda knew that all along).
The point is , we have pretty much decided what will become of us , and it happened fairly quickly.
Another thing that strikes me is how our definition of friendship has changed. We used to spend a lot of time together, now it's the other way around. And the strange thing is : We hardly miss it.
We are quite happy with the current situation.
I have embarked myself in different activities, have underlined a new life maxime and I'm trying hard to follow it.
If someone already said it best, then it must be:
There is an idea of a me; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I am simply not there.
I for one, plan to do my part.
And so I leave you with these words: From my dead cold hands.
Because we remember being different and we don't know how come we've changed.
Amusement appart, welcome work, still kisses with salive. This is what it feels like for a boy.
As someone somewhere said: I'm a 30 year old boy.
We keep getting older, and even though I look forward to it, I can't help but feeling a bit scared, for I know now, opposed to a few years ago, that for example, I won't be a pilot, or an astonaut, or president, or mathematician ( well , I kinda knew that all along).
The point is , we have pretty much decided what will become of us , and it happened fairly quickly.
Another thing that strikes me is how our definition of friendship has changed. We used to spend a lot of time together, now it's the other way around. And the strange thing is : We hardly miss it.
We are quite happy with the current situation.
I have embarked myself in different activities, have underlined a new life maxime and I'm trying hard to follow it.
If someone already said it best, then it must be:
There is an idea of a me; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I am simply not there.
I for one, plan to do my part.
And so I leave you with these words: From my dead cold hands.
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