Was exactly here, in this words that I stopped my wandering the last night when I tried have some words spitting out from myself.
But still I have only poured some liquids, strange liquids from my pain, I wanted say, my pen.
When I stopped I was like now... trying to do something... something that certainly was not a verse, neither the more sad ones. Because I do not know what love is as much one needs to know wich are the more sad verses.
This last lack was the, untill now, wich one was the minor. Could not have completed even three years, was only two and something.
Today I am in that other side from lackness period. I am in that kind of night where you can write the more sad (or almost it) verses, if... you were Neruda... But then, you remember you are not, and your rocky and cold heart was not made for love. Only love and nothing more, a desert of love, a desert called love, a improbably sufocating box but wide desert of love. Only love, wherever you look... love. Without yourself, without friends, without time, and, without life into a mass in a mess of lives.
One can stopp in a lack of life writtin due to so many reasons. But the strongest reason came to me as my rock here into my chest ( that people insisted in calling heart...) being invaded again.
And when I want to escape from my pain, my pen, I mean, I can find a lot of pretexts of respect to someone, charity, giving to other one his or her turn to show me, to show me something more of that desert.
When my rock beats again, I can see the world, I can feel the eras with all that they really need in true... I can see again that we are nothing, and that is our peace and reason to broke with our indifference, with our unnecessary wonder walls, and, then, breath...
Breath not because we are special or untouchable, breath only why we are nothing and so we have not all this responsability to being perfect everytime or mean something.
We only are! Such as anything.
Everytime I finish a lack and can feel again this nothing, I can write once more. And it could be the more sad words, but it would not be so sad, because I am out again, out from the lack, out from the desert, so, sad means nothing again,
Then I realize that I could write the more "nothing" words today. And, in fact, I just did it, right now.
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