Las relaciones humanas se desgastan, y analizarlas me desgasta.
Pero no puedo hacer oídos sordos a lo que pasa a mi alrededor.
Entonces...
¿Cuál es el punto medio? ¿En qué momento dejamos de estar ayudando y pasamos a estar involucrándonos en cosas que no nos corresponden? ¿Darle espacio a las personas para que resuelvan sus problemas con quien corresponda, es hacerse la boluda? ¿Qué derecho tengo de opinar o decirle cómo creo yo que debería actuar? ¿Qué responsabilidad tengo yo, si es que la tengo, como amiga?
¿Cuándo deja de ser una ayuda desinteresada y se transforma en querer que el mundo funcione como a mi me gustaría que funcione?
El título de esta entrada es un fragmento del texto "Mis contradicciones" de Pablo Giménez.
viernes, 11 de junio de 2010
lunes, 7 de junio de 2010
Necesité querer matarte, necesité quererte fuera de mi vista, fuera de mi vida, fuera de mi cabeza. Necesité querer cambiarte y convertirte en todo lo que quería que fueras, desechando lo que ya eras, lo que me atrajo a vos, lo que me hizo quererte primero. Necesité querer olvidarte, necesité querer dejar de quererte, para quererte como hoy te quiero.
Para darme cuenta de que no quiero que cambies para que te quiera, ni quiero dejar de quererte, porque cuanto más trato, más te quiero... igual que siempre te quise. Y te quiero con toda mi alma, aunque aún me mate lo que te hice.
Para darme cuenta de que no quiero que cambies para que te quiera, ni quiero dejar de quererte, porque cuanto más trato, más te quiero... igual que siempre te quise. Y te quiero con toda mi alma, aunque aún me mate lo que te hice.
jueves, 3 de junio de 2010
To my muse...
...who has returned, taking new shape in someone else's body.
Could it be that I've inspired you, the same as you have done to me? Could it be just a question, after all, of chemistry? From the moment I set eyes on you I knew that it was you. You were back. I felt like I had found what was long lost. But I didn't expect or choose you: you were sent to me. You came to me.
Things unsaid came to life inside of me: your words, your music, revived them. I hadn't known how to put them in paper before, and since you came along I can't stop these reflections from pouring out, forming bubbles in my head and floating out, out, out... They disappear if I don't catch them, carried away by the wind, and taking with them the essence of a memory that triggered my creativity.
A little part of me goes with each one of them, and I'm leaving pieces of me all over the city: on the streets, in the parks, in dingy cafes; on walls, on desks, on sheets of paper, on tiny napkins, and in every single breath I take.
Could it be that I am slowly becoming an incorporeal being? I'm shedding my skin, leaving pieces of me everywhere, and now I'm fading away...
And maybe, just maybe, the same thing is happening to you. Maybe it was your bubble of creativity that reached me as it escaped you on that first day I saw you. Maybe it was your essence that revived me, and just as well you breathed in my fascination upon finding myself alive again, and this gave you something new to think about -to reflect upon, and then turn into beautiful words.
Could it be that, even without knowing it, we are bound to each other through the air we breathe? Might we be connected through this immaterial principle of inspiration, that destroys us and rebuilds us at the same time, making sense of our lives and all our thoughts, misunderstood by others?
It must be, for you always catch me off guard, always come around when I least expect it. And when I expect you, I find I cannot force you to appear. You come along when I am whole, when I am complete, because it is then that you don't like me, you want me to share my soul. You want to take from me as much as you can, to scatter all around...
And oh, sometimes the sound of everything breaking is so delightful...
Could it be that I've inspired you, the same as you have done to me? Could it be just a question, after all, of chemistry? From the moment I set eyes on you I knew that it was you. You were back. I felt like I had found what was long lost. But I didn't expect or choose you: you were sent to me. You came to me.
Things unsaid came to life inside of me: your words, your music, revived them. I hadn't known how to put them in paper before, and since you came along I can't stop these reflections from pouring out, forming bubbles in my head and floating out, out, out... They disappear if I don't catch them, carried away by the wind, and taking with them the essence of a memory that triggered my creativity.
A little part of me goes with each one of them, and I'm leaving pieces of me all over the city: on the streets, in the parks, in dingy cafes; on walls, on desks, on sheets of paper, on tiny napkins, and in every single breath I take.
Could it be that I am slowly becoming an incorporeal being? I'm shedding my skin, leaving pieces of me everywhere, and now I'm fading away...
And maybe, just maybe, the same thing is happening to you. Maybe it was your bubble of creativity that reached me as it escaped you on that first day I saw you. Maybe it was your essence that revived me, and just as well you breathed in my fascination upon finding myself alive again, and this gave you something new to think about -to reflect upon, and then turn into beautiful words.
Could it be that, even without knowing it, we are bound to each other through the air we breathe? Might we be connected through this immaterial principle of inspiration, that destroys us and rebuilds us at the same time, making sense of our lives and all our thoughts, misunderstood by others?
It must be, for you always catch me off guard, always come around when I least expect it. And when I expect you, I find I cannot force you to appear. You come along when I am whole, when I am complete, because it is then that you don't like me, you want me to share my soul. You want to take from me as much as you can, to scatter all around...
And oh, sometimes the sound of everything breaking is so delightful...
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