Others

I keep on having problems with writing and defining my space and who I am, or should I say, who i am. I have my doubts with regards to the space I want to be part of and share with others, if there are others. Although I shouldn't doubt that there are others, because there are always others, whether near or far. I think I'm alone in this, but I'm constantly defining, abstracting who I am based on my competences and my interacting with others, even if they are not here. I should understand this. 

Life is not so much more terrific when others are around, but the variety of sounds and noise varies, and suddenly more of reality shows up, and it pushes you to take a closer look, perhaps still embedded in your own attributions and tribulations. It is nonetheless more of a challenge to the universe in your head. 

Sometimes I feel I have nothing to say, just rehashes of the past, but all of them are echoes of now.

Together

Together we ride with the trappings of life within the seams, and roll over and back in the belief of the systemic nature of redemption. Moreover, we seem to entail nothing is beyond our reach now that we tempt it with our fingertips. There is no residing knowledge in the excessive regard to life. This life swells with its imperfections and betrayals. Who is to know what awaits without a night watcher? If anything, we are already over and out like a flame whistled by a gasp of air, a bubble of respite from this tough, tough living. 

Luego está la literatura

Al final me encuentro con que tengo que retomar la escritura. Me veo envuelta en este magma de palabras sin escribir, y tengo que darles salida sin que vea referencias claras de los aspectos de mi vida y mi subconsciente que debo esclarecer. 

No sé si me afecta reencontrarme con mi soledad, que siendo sonora no es gran problema, o si se trata de socavar los ecos de un vacío entérico, fisiológico y contumaz. He intentado muchas cosas que no han dado resultado, y es normal: las heridas del alma no se solucionan, no dan la cara con resultados ni técnicas. Se trata sólamente de ser, de arrimarse, de estar presente. Luego todo lo demás le va siguiendo la corriente. 

No sé si me he dejado de lado o si me he arrepentido de ser yo misma. De igual modo, nunca lo sabré. Tampoco confío en empezar algo ni en continuarlo, sino de no haberlo dejado nunca. Tal vez transija y permita que mi voz se pertreche y manifieste en su versión de carrera solitaria de fondo. Sí, la palabra es permitir. 

Luego está la literatura, a la que estoy fallándole. Me falta el lado social que me reafirme mientras luego consigo ser lo que soy en la página. No sé qué vendrá primero, la gallina ...