Maybe it's time to say a few words.
was not until today that I have noticed my silence.
new, long and sorted, in which everything is a little harder and everything is a little easier.
My inflated days, where everything's a little more and all matters less and less.
Have I got to keep the secret? I think not.
The secret is this: a battle with the literature and there is no winner. She and I dropped out of the ring, where an arbitrator crazy with anxiety problems blows and blows his shrill whistle.
Within this secret is a larger one, and spent the months of watching (pleasant and scared) how it came the year my life changed forever.
Now I'm embedded in a stretch where reality is finally another: I'm waiting for someone new to fill my entire life. I look out the window at the bottom of the roof, which leaves me the horizon dirty see. I imagine his face, over and over again, I can even imagine their future. I want it to arrive. I also want the time to stop.
This morning I diagnosed a disease: I can not reconcile the literature with other giant things. "I'm not, or is it really hard? Well, why. Moreover, it is still all around me literature, but different: my work, the books I read, that sniffing, I emphasize, too, though of course bad, the newspaper I write. I suppose a therapist would tell me that there is a time for everything these days and it's not fair that martirice me that way (the way I do, upset, bowed down, falling a whip there where it hurts). As yet I go to a therapist, I decided to write a blog post and tell me what happens.
I'm creating something inside me, which almost is almost ready.
I created a femur, a pancreas, a small skull.
I created the Achilles heel now I kick the belly buster.
No, never mind there was deus ex machina, that is pure biochemistry irrational.
For months I have my energy trying to drag into the same old places, and my energy, a soldier in battle, I'm back, it is less clear: the femur, pancreas, amniotic fluid. In the empty nights, open my notebook and scribbled: I know this is perfection. But the fight that my social being, my being literary, that my being anxious, my being a university, educational, scary, ambitious, tormented by defraud, has with my uterus deus ex machina is intense and leaves me sprawling, almost no air , diaphragm burst. Days pass, my belly grows unstoppable, there is nothing to do with life.
I have fear.
Fear of failing to correct and finish my thing Marshlight (whenever it is not too late).
Fear Marshlight not write another thing in the future.
Fear ceases to be in where? (Remember, this is a list for the therapist.)
Fear away from that (with the voice of Poe's tale).
Fear of losing the opportunity to (oh, did I have?).
Fear of disappointing my father.
Fear of defrauding people who trusted me one day.
Fear of not being able to everything: work, love, friendship, motherhood, literature-creation, social-editorial-facebook! Ah, sorry. Is that I can not Everything. This is not a fear, is a reality. Something we've come.
Fear to convert my old optimism in frustration.
Fear of myself, of course.
So I decided to come here and have these secrets that I do not think anyone surprised. That my silence has this color. I need, in this final stretch, raising his arms and make an effort, aside from me this coat, wet with frost, a little apulgarada at the edges, which weighs on the shoulders me: let my energy is focused on what mind: that final touch of perfection, moving from the three hundred kilo kilos, carefully prop hair from eyebrows, cuticles of the toenails, strengthen the tiny lungs to become powerful muscles to transform air. Are just two months. Maybe I'm still in time to fly. To let me go.
Deus ex machina, from me useless. No it's my turn, it is theirs. Concentrate all your strength in that mad heart that beats to 160 beats per minute and will go on tomorrow, when mine stops.
I ask (ask me, I ask) for a truce.
A warmth in silence, as it comes.
Quiet stay because I'm whispering.
I'm not going anywhere, I see.
And finally I get what I missed so much: I'll stop the world with one hand, I'll stop everyday villainy that only continue to work revolutions. Nothing happens, just wait and perfected.
Overall, it does not matter: in me, but nobody sees it, everything is literature, beginning with the name of my daughter .
0 comments:
Post a Comment