danny

somos dos y estamos hecho de diferentes sustancias. y nos vemos parecidos, pero somos diferentes.

la tuya es aire, la mia es fuego. pero pronto sera agua.

Just a perfect day,
Drink Sangria in the park,
And then later, when it gets dark,
We go home.
Just a perfect day,
Feed animals in the zoo
Then later, a movie, too,
And then home.

Oh it’s such a perfect day,
I’m glad I spent it with you.
Oh such a perfect day,
You just keep me hanging on,
You just keep me hanging on.

Just a perfect day,
Problems all left alone,
Weekenders on our own.
It’s such fun.
Just a perfect day,
You made me forget myself.
I thought I was someone else,
Someone good.

Oh it’s such a perfect day,
I’m glad I spent it with you.
Oh such a perfect day,
You just keep me hanging on,
You just keep me hanging on.

You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow…

— Lou Reed

there are many things i would change of myself right now. and sad as it seems, it will always be like that. i guess i’m never satisfy with my personal status-quo, and i guess i’m not alone.

what makes me dwell on these thoguhts is sometimes i feel overwhelmed by my own self. like i’ve been neglecting taking care of it, of me, and now i see a filthy room full of decaying food and worn trousers, of unlabeled folders and unmade sheets, of dying plants, of rusting coffe mugs, of opened books and bath towels, around. and everything i see at the same time.

that marks the reordering time. it takes me usually 2 to 5 days to get myself to my previos ordered state, since i cannot order stuff. i want it all at hand, since it all seems useful. but then, all at hand means all at eyesight, and that leads back to disorder.

the mental state for reordering has to be of hierarchically classifying usefulness, or perhaps fetchability. knowing what will be used and what not. what is important ans what can be discarded to a lesser level of readiness, some drawer, some box, some cupboard under.

at the end, after some days it is easy enough to get it all in its right place, and restart the normal entropy process of getting it out and leave it there.

feelings on the other hand, are different. they have a life of their own. they jump out of their hideouts when less expected. and keep around, bothering and howling, with huge attention needs and high-pitched voices.

i’m starting to be bother by them. i’m starting to think they are here just to subconsciously sabotage myself. to be spoiled and not to feel guilty about it. to selfishly approach moments without letting me know what i want, but just what they care about.

triggered by infinitely small memories, like atom bombs they just appear and grow in nanoseconds, consuming all the oxigen around, leaving no air to breathe, no light to see, but the blatant smell of their own will. tiny pandora’s boxes that get leashed off by the most ridicule places and images.

there’s pureness in not feeling. there’s complete control in not caring. if fear is in the future and an expectation of something to come, insensitiveness is bliss in escaping any expectative, any comeout being great, being the same thing.

sensations, on the other hand, are the perfect companion for a total, fulfilled, epicurean life. open senses fill the mental voids that demanding feelings leave when they’re not. sensing is just like being there, no future or past attached, just the breeze, the smell of her skin, the warmth of the sun caressing your face, or the chocolate chunk stuck to your palate.

her kiss, hot coffee in the morning, the sound of the sea outside the window, a blind man walking slowly towards the riverside, rain pouring a mile away, a witty comment and laughs following, a hand touching my skin, the idea that someone loves you, those sensations are beyond good and evil, beyond past and future. they’re there to be sensed and to avoid being “felt”.

inmediately, life becomes a wonderful circus of attractions, a babette’s feast to eyes and ears and skins; a complete, void-filling, all-time-consuming, ready-to-be-consciously-sensed experience without the emotional baggagge. and memories created are stored carefully in your sensible brain, not in your sensitive heart. because sensible brains have less bureaucracy to let go than sensitive hearts.

after all, living 100% does not mean you have to care, does it?

I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don’t know why nobody told you
How to unfold your love
I don’t know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you

I look at the world and I notice it’s turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don’t know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don’t know how you were inverted
No one alerted you

I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Look at you all…
Still my guitar gently weeps

— George Harrison – While My Guitar Gently Weeps

what does not kill you makes you a son-of-a-bitch

traitors of the language, symbols play with my thoughts these days.

what a bastard conception of communication can symbols be. their unnatural nature, of combination and contextfulness gives up to most and any of my constructions of the present.

even the most futile of desperations transforms in a person, in an event, in a uttering. the signifying becomes the signified, and hell breaks loose.

it will pass, she will unbecome, it will evolve into a past chapter of my life, like everything else. but symbols will stay, as a milestone, a tombstone, a memoir of a confusion, of unpleasing times.

save the meaning, loose the memento. and then, when time distills the trueness of instances, let things decant into souvenirs, feelings and mental pictures of a happier past.

after all, we’re living just an instance. the rest, be it past memories or future desires is tainted with personal choice.

let it be so