Lazarus
How were you when you drank?
someone asks as if wondering about the dead.
may have reason
who dies is not the same raises.
Jorge de la Garza Cantú
My cigarettes are grips with reality. That uneasiness in the stomach, the heat uncomfortable whole through me when the time becomes water is forcing my trembling hands to light the next. I always had a nervous character. My life is a panther crouching, ready for the big jump, but still.
My mind is filled with boxes of papers stuck urgent cry. I have a lot of incomplete lists, plans unattended. The time to dream and so I scattered. I'm turning again and again to things I put on hold (pending the capacity, resources, courage, decisiveness) and thus lost in the chaos that reigns inside my head. Everything is logical, yet twisted, as if my skull was the wonderland.
I have this great recipe, the ingredients, but I dare not enter the kitchen. Anything seems more important (look, a butterfly). It is a mixture of apathy and insecurity that keeps me static. Books are the only ones who get to talk, and even their voices seem distant at times.
Writing is terrifying. You undress and go out. The whole world can see every one of your flaws. Writing leads to frustration disappointing. To my bad luck, writing is like breathing.
I holding my breath too long and awkward gasps respite now, pulling all the air I can to my lungs. It's just something I have to do. My call, you might say.
And now I'm here, smoking, banging the keys on my computer recently arranged (as if it were a typewriter), naked before strangers (either I is not a stranger).
How do you explain, DVD, panic produced by the blank page, the burden readers have asked your words, the shame of not being able to accommodate a successful online? How can you understand what is trying to justify such a long absence, a sterile literary period, when your whole life is geared to the words?
None of the ways in which intended to return and say hi again seemed appropriate. The only thing is I was able to come and spew my thoughts hoping that you take as an apology and believe with more conviction than I perhaps did not lose my ability to all for what they really serve.
Crave is the only word that can explain how I feel. Can be translated as "crave, crave, need." I crave for life and a lot of stuff that I really dont need. I wish I could concentrate.
My point with all the shit I just wrote is that I am remodeling. At first everything is hunky-dory why you are all motivated and energetic, but then when you realize the work that still needs to be done, habits such as walls, you have to pull the rubble of the past to dismiss, the plans for a strong foundation and lasting trace, you need expensive materials to build the life of your dreams, construction and workmanship tired of you have, you get pretty sick at the magnitude of the company.
Big plans, yes sir, but under budget. And under budget involves double Ching, with all the sorrow in the world, I am an egg producing the worst. I was born tired. But the dream is strong (as I do not sleep), so I'm still here, like an idiot, standing in the black of my life pieces that move too slow for my taste.
feel that this blog has not left me. I grew up and simply is not my style. Make no mistake, I love each and every one of my posts, I love the tone of the site, but it's like twenty kilos off and try to wear your favorite dress.
Same and I'm malviajando. I just want you to know how guilty I feel so shut up. How out of place I feel at this time. I know I'll write in the future, for sure, but maybe it here, do not know if I can tailor the garment or if I have to find a new one that is comfortable. I will not leave (You can not have you forsaken me, thank you) and if I move I promise you'll be my first guest. While
destroyed everything to build it again, I can only fumarme another cigarette and trying to remain standing. With a little luck walk soon.
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