For a second job…

It was a gray morning. The rain took everyone’s prayers and put them on the ground. Not. On the streets. Streets full of holes. Holes understood as scars. Scars of this city. A city with nothing left but holding on. Just like people waiting on supermarket´s lines. Lines for food. For a second job. A job born from the chaos. And by the way: such a chaos brought to establish order. Yes. An order. A convenient order. So we all go and watch TV, read the papers, complain, and complain again until we begin to hope. Finally. Hoping for a better tomorrow and tomorrow is today. And today it’s raining and the morning was gray… But this is not just a sad feeling. Nope. Among the events of the day people still find a better look, a fancy place to gather (and yes, still complaining) but there are some who laugh, upload pictures of a nice lifestyle, even with these news, with these politicians. So I wonder if it may be our wonder; if this is a beauty I don’t understand because I spend too much time staring at elsewhere ones. I can’t help it. The concept of beauty and wonder I grew up with is far from this one. But I get this sort of a kind. Chaos: when is induced by power, it is just a beautiful thing…

How hard is to be easy!

The spoiled aspect in us might be considered a sort of a viral picture we use to live with. Like it is said in Venezuela: It is getting (Could be: everyone is getting it) Well; it may be typical. Such a thing is attributed, at first, to a misinterpretation of first loves. Eventually we get uncomfortable, to then start a never exhausting search for finding fear. Finally the goal lies on the admiration. So that we tend to believe we are better admired by fear rather than love. We never stop evocating childhood. Some experts call it depression, perhaps because of a insecurity in that, maybe. But if we imagine a little and believe the tale that our personality is made by shells like an onion, the insecurity comes out first, and for that, besides crying, in this case, we get depressed.  We reach the anger, the envy, and mixed it all up with unhappiness. From there we go to the pills and then prescriptions. That’s on we are. Especially if we find a good vice so such a disorder gets justified. That’s the way I am. But time never stops being perfect and not only God’s. Someday we’ll no longer be feared (whoever fears us) and it will become into a defeat which we avenge with the love. How easy is to be difficult, isn’t It? Better said: How hard is to be easy! That’s the reason why the conflict is a kind of peace and for that Peace is always a conflict… 

Spanish version: aquí

      

The sublime pretext’s recyclability…

One Word is wrongly said until it is approved for existence and that force us say many things wrong lately. Known it is that  a partition wall is related with construction and such a term in Spanish language (as many other words) comes from the Arabic…  A partition wall is used to divide spaces but not with the same quality than a real wall needs to be called such as… Pretext: the pretext works out like a partition wall. It is useful for establishing weak divisions between what will come and what is imminent, and time keeps going by, which is called cyclical by the way; because there are moments that can return from scratch, thus, everyone can pretext once more and once again. But why? To repeat the cycle? Trying some poetry: To stretch time? There are situations with perspectives alike. For example while waiting on a line, which is always unnecessary and therefore convenient (at least here: in Venezuela) But why again? Because stretching time justify pretexts. Symbiotically, perhaps…  Most of us know: that who waits despair as much as with the excuse, and who explains confuses when not managing to convince, and when cannot make it offends… But why once more? Because stretching time brings power even with pretexts, because pretexting  stretches the time of the power, because the power, the power has to be stretched and also pretexted…  

Spanish version: aquí

Barridos

Cuando la brisa modera no molesta,

y las hojas que deciden caer se toman su tiempo,

sea para asimilar el abandono del árbol o sea para saber que ahora son del viento.

Llegan al concreto para,

más tarde que temprano,

agruparse con otras de otros árboles;

ser bulto:

y aguardar dentro de la bolsa plástica a la que fueron a parar por la pala y la escoba.

Así debe ser: ser barrido;

y como las hojas,

pudiéramos presumir,

más no lo sabemos,

quiénes son en nosotros esa escoba y esa pala…  

El árbol no abandona sino que deja ir,

quizás por algún acuerdo con el viento,

quizás porque le expropiaron el bosque,

quizás;

quizás porque ahora es el intruso de su propio terreno…  

Árboles somos tomos de vez en cuando,

porque de vez en cuando nos toca dejar ir y pactar con ese viento;

aunque su brisa nos disguste,

aunque no guste la canción que cantan nuestras ramas…

Sí…

Hay cada vez más días árboles y días hojas.

Hoy nos barren más y más dejamos ir…