violet III

I’ve finally accepted the condition of my self. My inner soliloquy has come to an end where acceptance seems to reign: I’m different. I am not better or worse than anyone. I’m just different. I’ve try to fit in to blend in, without any success. I’ve suffered from this situation of not feeling comfortable anywhere; I’ve used too many masks, getting rid of them and tired of them and I’ve been betrayed by them. Because none of them defines me. And at the same time I need something to do so, and when something does define me, I find myself fighting for breath. It was the eternal fight, where you confuse the enemy with the people that surround you, when in fact, if you look carefully, you will fin that the only enemy is inside you eating you alive. It still does sometimes, and hurts, so when it does, I try to fit in, but it just doesn’t feel right, my walking is painful and uncomfortable, my breathing is heavy, and I feel like collapsing. So, under such circumstances, and after years of struggling against myself, and trying to adapt myself to the “situation”, I have decided to give myself a big hug, and to welcome myself to my own, private and parallel world, where everyone is invited, but only a few will stay.

garrison

I see the spots in my wallpaper and I think how those stains have changed so recently. I used to be fond of the red and blue, now I seek for stronger staggering colors, I need them to be close to me so I can be remembered that the change has to be imminent, and that the strength to achieve it must not be subsided. There will be no diversion, no opponent, if so… I will have to tackle it down.  

one of these days

Look at the pleas that fall.

I wish I had never have to taste them.

It is only the violet bumping furiously

The glasses with which my throat chokes, I harshly swallow

They are waiting up in the sky for the right moment

 Irritating noises

Irritating noises

Tell’em all

Tell’em all

never to fall

Is it only the smoke that keeps that holder?

Those little rounds apples in my cabinet?

Ignore, ignite and reload.

violet II

  Quite nervous, but who can tell. Tolerable, sometimes to the extreme. Accosted, by herself. She justifies the unjustifiable. Loving, caring, naïve and weak. She collects sisters, cousins, she collected fathers, loves, books, and dolls. Considered as a weird and particular person, she is seen as a bundle of phrases, words, opinions, and nothing more than someone who wants to achieve so many things, though she doesn’t have the strength. She doesn’t have the space, she doesn’t belong here, or there, or anywhere. If she were inanimate and yet dynamic, she would be a thought. If she were a color, she will be violet, if she were a number, she will be a five. Surrounded by circles and cycles, she is unreachable. Face it, you’ll not cope with her.   

images worth thousands of words, and millions of smiles

violet

Let her be. Let her be weak if she wants to. Let her burn books if she wishes to. Let her love without permission if she pleases to. Give her the courage to live, no the burden to carry. Not the rules to analyze, not the strategy to perform, not the calculation of love. Let her criticize what we are not supposed to. Let her be violet, no black or white. Let her be shapeless. Let her carry her own weight. Let her go. But people made her believe she was special; they made her believe she could do anything she wanted to, and at the same time they mess with her head painting stains with dirty broken glasses, and no respect.

the shortest short story ever

For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.

Ernest Hemingway.-

lullaby

When the night falls on us, after the tiring unscrupulous day, our body and our soul seem to be the protagonists of violent encounter. Suddenly, everything becomes real, tasteless; they recognize our fears of every shape that we have seen trough the day and the memories of what we still can not see. The fears, the night; the night, the fears. If we are with someone, the night it is then a continuous wave of the day, a play with no recess, a film with no errors.
But if the night caches us alone, then, what a threat. We run towards the dangerous possibility of turn into madness, we run into desperation. We take the risk of finding ourselves alone. The night drags us into questions, into the belief of death, and of faith. We question the how, the when, the why, the why me, and the why not me. The night is cruel, sometimes. I sleep besides her, with the light on so she won’t feel alone. And because I have met and interacted with fancies characters; it is not unusual that the Night comes to me in the form of a whore in snickers. I’m awake all night, waiting for echoes; but she only sits in a corner to rest.

this is me

I want to shine so badly, so fiercely, that I don’t know how to. I want to shine without letting anyone blind. I want to show them, to show you what can I do, what I can create with my very hands, with my mind, with all my self. I write, for me. I do not know when I began, but I do know that since I began writing I couldn’t stop. I’ve thrown few things, and burnt others. I have revised things over and aver again, in a rollercoaster, hurrying times in order to move the strings for something to happen. I have times where I lean to abstinence and times of addiction. With ups and downs, I keep record of the last 7 years; with that I can watch, rewind and forward my own life. And I say forward, because is very possible that what I write today will take place in my life later, as I said in an earlier entry (“words”) what you say inevitably will be heard by the whole universe; and things will start their own motion.
But even with the strength of all my convictions, I’m afraid of letting the world to come over my world. I’m afraid of believing that I can do it, and then realize that I can’t. I keep on producing, because is good for my soul. It is profitable for my soul. I have the courage to keep on showing myself, and what I do, with all the consequences that may bring.
Nelson Mandela said, “It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves,who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” And he was right. As he were answering me he says:“….You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won t feel insecure around you.”
I do not want to shrink. If I shrink, I won’t be able to look myself, not even on dirt. I do not want to better than anyone…I want to be the best I can be. This is what I do. This is who I am, I reflect myself through this. I say and demand. I show my anger and my consciousness. My love and regrets. Of all the things I should be putting all my effort on, this, my expression, is my precious one.

shapes

My hand,
the shade of my hand,
against the wall, defiant, ilimited.
It reaches the unreachable, the deepest point of thinking.

But in a close photogram,
it has the punishment of my own arm’s will.

dice

I have been the witness of my own murder
I have been the bastard who tied my hands
And shut my mouth;
Just to me, the own King;
Will not hear my owns wails.
Her Queen, I have been, who cried for the injustice
Which I, his servant, was already used to.

But thanks to heaven,
I have also been the perfomer of my own death,
Who gave rest to my tired bones.

hopes and fears

I don’t want bad feelings to come, I am in a good mood today. I had a good, fine, fair day. Besides I feel loved, at least for now, that is what it counts, and I am quiet now. I’m not going to tell you that it doesn’t hurt sometimes, that it doesn’t bother me so much fear passing by, messing around, calling me from behind. I can feel it in my neck, I can see it in my dreams. I do not fight against that fear anymore, I just let it go. I don’t know how, or when or why. I just don’t look at it anymore. Although sometimes, I smell it, I can feel it, approaching, coming, waiting, staring at me. Without permission, consent or agreement, wakes me up when I’m asleep, drags me out of my bed, and leaves me shaking in some corner of my room. And I get angry, upset, and makes me cry and then abandons me shivering; on that unambiguous point the fear eats me alive, and is impossible to shut my eyes, because I’m afraid of what may come. In that precise moment I don’t recognize myself, I’m just a bundle of something that holds together in order not to keep on falling. I have waited so many nights for the daylight to sleep. Hope comes with the very first light, sometimes it fades fast and weak; sometimes it lasts longer. Sometimes it comes stronger, sometimes doesn’t come. It doesn’t even call. Maybe it comes when I’m not at home. I wish Fear gets some Hope and leave me alone. Both of them. Because today, today I’m just fine. I am quiet and I want to explore this feeling of quietness. So, if you see my Fears and Hopes, tell them that I am not at home.