29/9/14

Sobria, apagada, mustia, cansina y monótona.

Escribir es mi único estímulo. Es lo que empuja mi vida. 
 
Tras un volcán de sensaciones, mis letras inundan la tierra y la tiñen de un rojo magma. Evidentemente, no la inundan toda. Pero sí el área de sus alrededres. Y hay qué ver, qué bonito es el rojo y qué vitalidad da. Qué caliente está el volcán. Cuán faltas de vitalidad están sus laderas.
 
Escribir es mi único estímulo. La razón por la que decido seguir respirando.
 
Vida sobria, apagada, mustia, cansina, monótona, empápate de esta lava. Y si arrasa con todo, no importa. Al menos dejarás de ser sobria, apagada, mustia, cansina y monótona.


 
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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.