3/5/14

Un vacío dentro.

Un vacío dentro. Ella sentía eso.
Un vacío dentro que allí no correspondía.
No era un vacío como el de una cantimplora que se rellena cuando vas de viaje.
O tal vez sí. Tal vez a veces se rellenaba. Quizás con un relleno ligero, como el agua transparente, fuente de vida. Quizás aquel relleno hacía tanta falta que, cuando aparecía, una boca sedienta bebía de él de inmediato. Y se acababa el relleno.
Vacío de nuevo.


 
Mi cantimplora cría telarañas.
Publicado por

2 comentarios:

  1. SirCunstancia6/01/2014 3:49 p. m.

    Me encanto! Da placer leer maravilla como la que has redactado. Besos!

    ResponderEliminar
  2. foolingroger6/06/2014 2:33 p. m.

    Gracias! No sabes lo mucho que significa para mí que me digas eso :)

    ResponderEliminar

Ya que entro, comento.

Suscribirse a: Enviar comentarios (Atom)
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.

I walked down the stairway and
into it.

-Charles Bukowski.