Creo que lo se…

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Mummata (Translation)

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Some friend told me whyI don’t writte in English. Ok. Read this translations and you will know why

I am cold. I guess it’s the consequence of having heard the friendly voices that told me that the solutions are not at the bottom of the bottles. With the help of Benson, I got to stay a few days sober, or half sober if that is possible. Wrapped in a blanket attempt to withstand tremors inherited many nights of wine without roses. The consequences are similar, though much less romantic. Tonight almost I would volunteer be to electroshock just for making company to Jack Lemmon. Of the friendly voices has I a bit confused: I don’t understand it. According to Benson friendly voices are those that appear when you can no longer hear or understand the inner voices. I am concerned that among the friendly voices could be bastards of difficult qualification. Friends of wine are friends or are not: sounds weird but it is very true. Living without alcohol is like surgery without anesthesia. We all need a point of inhibition when things get ugly. Operate without a doubt claim anesthesia; the same happens when what you dislike is to live. The anesthesia of the damned comes bottled.

Since the other morning with Benson I debate me in a sea of doubt. When I dropped in the eyes of the girl I wasn’t expecting to stay hanging from the empty space. I live in a complete feeling of vertigo, as if you were falling toward the center of the Earth on an infinite journey locked in an endless return. When I asked him his name hear a voice like the humming of a cat:"Mummata": I don’t even is if it is possible to call her that, but the musicianship of this set of letters are hammering in my soul and in my heart, now that I know that are different things. Since I do not see her only I want to sleep. The dream is the death of the poor, a cheap and affordable death as the gloomy rooms where sometimes hide the cries of lovers. When you are not with me I want to destroy me. No, it is not kill myself, that makes it any idiot; I seek the destruction will be destroyed as the Sun of the sinners that day of reckoning, I evaporate from the sea and breack in master pieces that nobody can return to joint again, leading me ahead what I have been and what I am not to be ever again. My life turned into a terminal illness guarded by the antithesis of King Midas, with the capable hands turn into fuck everything you touch. Benson looks serene, not afraid. It is possible, he tells me, to love more than one person at a time: she may love the body of a body and soul in another body, the intellect of a third and up to smile one more. She may love the fire in the bottom of the eyes, fever in the soul and the dark corners of the heart, where the spiders close their eight eyes to go to sleep. She may love a hip, a shoulder, a chest, a sex… Yes, you can love all that, but you can’t have everything at the same time. You can buy a body, a will, a speech and a silence, but you have to gain the rest. The money is only the ballast which leads you to the abyss and betrayal.

Hands shaking me. I cannot keep them quiet time enoght to see if there is something in them. Again I feel nausea, but already I nothing left to vomit, or physical or metaphorically. The bile of the soul is much more bitter that the liver can produce. It’s like having to vomit sawdust, it destroys you when pass. It reminds you that, somehow, you’ve already lost this war. I refuse; I wake up and again I fall, I relish me shamefully in my excrescences, I am permeable to all kinds of ridiculous-. Mummata! Where are you? I want to rip the evil eye, amputating you lies, destroying that shadow that want to separate us like as a creature lurking behind the door. Let me see you the time that can withstand an ember in my hand! Gives me the term of a sigh and at then I tell you all, I will tell it all…

I hear the rain burst on the metal roof. The tropics endeavored once more to remind us how little we and our sufferings are. I still feel in my arms her perfect body, her deep breath, the taste of the skin more hidden. His eyes held a pregnant encyclopedia of lessons difficult, impossible to forget. Wonderful creature, you’re my dream every day and every night. A slow kiss. I dream that I’m fighting, but I don’t see my enemy. I send swipes in the air and finally I become exhausted, tired of fighting my shadow. I seek answers where there are only questions.

The wind rises powerful, like an invisible wall that wants to occupy all the space at the same time. Takes the rain and  deploy curtains that open and close labyrinths that nobody will ever read.

Benson looks at me. For the first time, I think I’ve seen a tear twinkling in his eyes.

Written by aitztv

7 diciembre, 2013 a 5:34


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