Perdóname

Ahora, cuando te miro

te veo -sin verme-

y pienso que tal vez haya muerto

en el azul de tus ojos

que ahora es gris.

Que lo único que te queda de mí

es esa mancha amarilla

que tienes al lado de la pupila.

Ahora, cuando te oigo

no me escucho en tus palabras,

y la gravedad afónica de tu voz

ya no forma parte de mis ecos,

porqué hace tiempo

que tengo otra melodía en la cabeza.

Y sin embargo,

antes

el oxígeno quemaba

si no estabas a mi lado.

Andar era más difícil

si no iba de la mano de tu sombra,

y lloraba por ti

cuando tú reías por otras

porqué temía que tu sonrisa

brillase más en sus ojos

que en los míos.

Antes,

el tempo de mi vida

lo marcaban mis dedos por tu espalda,

y desesperada

quería ser un molde para ti

olvidándome tanto

-y recordándonos a cada instante-

que perdí mi forma.

De ser.

Y perdóname si me iba

para que respondieras a mis ausencias.

Pero nunca obtenía la respuesta

que esperaba.

Y esperé,

a que me vieras

pero fue mi culpa si no lo hacías

porqué cada día dejaba de ser yo

para ser más tú.

Y en mi fracaso, mi transparencia. 

Así que perdóname si con el tiempo

dejé de escucharte, y de escucharme

que ya ni en mis palabras me reconocía,

que ni mi tristeza era ya la mía

-hasta eso te quedaste-.

Perdóname, por favor

si te digo que abandoné mi dolor

en el cajón de tu mesita de noche

donde antes guardábamos los condones

con los que no hacíamos el amor.

Y sobre todo perdóname

si te digo que he dejado de buscarte

en los solos de guitarra

y en las novelas de Bukowski.

Que miro el futuro sin tus ojos,

y tu nombre ya no escribe mi presente.

Que el antes y el ahora 

son dos personas distintas.

Que ya no tengo esos ojos,

ni esa boca,

ni esa voz,

ni esa sed de ser querida.

Que ahora quiero sin esperar

y espero quererme

cada día más.

Porqué vuelvo a ser yo.

Y por eso me disculpo

si te digo

que me hace feliz

ser feliz
sin ti. 

perdida; perdiendo

revuelta
desnuda entre las sábanas.

borrosa
en sus ojos y en sus manos.

con miedo
a girarse
porqué le gustaba
el camino de sus dedos
resbalando por su espalda.

negada
a soltarse de otras manos
por si se caía
de su nube.

intrusa
en su cama y en sus pensamientos
gemía su nombre
y se reía
con los ojos cerrados.

perdida
seguía andando, sin moverse
hacia el puto sol
que la cegaba.

perdiendo
la ropa y la cabeza
debajo de la cama
donde las palabras
y los silencios
se llenan de polvo.

cabreada
seguía mirando
sin ver nada de nada.

callando
le escupía al futuro
y anhelaba el pasado.

callada
de noche
se cubría los pechos
y en la curva de su cuello
un desconocido
se llevaba su alma
y la incendiaba
con un cerilla
que le había dado ella.

misconception

Misconception of the self. A soft pain hitting his chest with a non-coordinated tempo. The smoke slightly escapes between the lips. The hands shake as thousand earthquakes.
You're nervous. You're hurt. You're mad. You're empty.
Only the afection of a significant other can return your senses back.
There's love, lust, pain, loss.
The blind sight of ten incoming trains impacts him to the bones. He falls to the ground and he barely feels. His brain replays a high pitch all over his head.
There's loss.
The wind fades the ashes away and he's left with a smoked cigarrette. He doesn't even smoke. His hands are cold between his thighs, looking for mutual heat. He sighs. Tiny pieces of ice cut his face sofly. Snow.
There's pain.
There's blood all over the ground and a corpse in the middle of the big red stain. People look, people stare. They scream. Some of them are even crying. Someone's calling the police. The ambulance. Some of them are taking photos. Others run, others sit there shocked. Life's hard to give and easy to take.
There's lust.
She sighs and smiles. Their bodies divide becoming two. They were an only and unique being, for once. He lays down next to her.
Her fingertips draw thin lines on his nude chest. Softly taps his shoulders, with a non-coordinated tempo. The smoke of her cigarrette escapes between her bright red lips. His soul shakes as thousand earthquakes when her hands touch his skin. "You're not that bad", she laughs.
He rolls his eyes. She laughs again.
There's love.
A girl sits next to him. She does smoke. He doesn't. But he has cigarrettes.
-Do you want one?- he says.
-I have mine.
-You can take my cigarrettes if you want. I don't even smoke.
-It's snowing. -she looks at him with piercing green eyes.- what are you doing here?
-I could ask you the same, don't you think?
-I'm smoking. What are you doing here?
-I thought I lost someone.
-Did you found that person?
-Yes. -he looks at her.

El carboncillo corría por la lámina, sin cesar.

Nuestra vida se desvance
como el carboncillo
corriendo sin cesar
encima de la lámina.
Queremos que los trazos
tengan algun significado.
Y sin embargo
somos egoistas
y nos quedamos todo el dolor
para nosotros mismos
que nos corrompe
y nos destruye
consumiendo las últimas gotas
de nuestra esencia.
Y en ese punto
ya no sabemos quienes somos.
Aún así
algo siempre nos mantiene
pegados
a esto que llamamos vida.
Cuando en realidad la vida
se muere
y es culpa del tiempo.

Isolation

There is so many people that can not get themselves lost in art, and that makes me really sad. So many people that say "No, I do not read." "This painting is meaningless." "Ew, that song is not catchy, I dislike it."

Well, let me tell you how wonderful it is to get lost in a book, in music, or in a painting. How peaceful is to isolate yourself in your inner world reading, listening to music or drawing. 

The satisfaction of finding a song that makes you dance, that makes you cry, smile, enjoy. It fills you up with the sensation that time does not exist. It is just you and music, floating in emptiness.

Or the satisfaction of being a part of a story. You can relate to the characters, you cry for them and you love with them. The feeling of throwing all your life away, forgetting about what is going on around you, or even forgetting who you are. You are not you. You are the exclamations and the interrogations. you are the smell of the pages and the covers. You are wisdom, love, pain. Because when you read, the characters' feelings are yours too.

And the third satisfaction, but not the last that exists, and not by far the first. The expression of your emotions on a paper. It can be colorful, or it can be different shades of grey. It can be a giant painting, or a tiny one. It can be in so many different ways, but what matters is the sensation of freedom when you finish your artwork. You left there your thoughts and emotions, dreams and fears, truth and lies. You left there your feelings, your desires and who you are.

This is why it should be more important to let ourselves get lost in art.

Art is love, pain, fear, fun, violence, sex, rejection, wisdom, nature. Art is freedom. Art is you, and you are art.

So now tell me, what is life, if it is not art?

I do apologize.

This essay is about art and I only use three manifestations of itself to explain how it feels to get lost in art. Books, music and paintings are just a little part of what art can be. Art can be everything and nothing, so please, all the others types of art that were not mentioned, do not get offended for just talking about books, music and paintings.