Frustrated Meditation

Exhausted with no time to think, much less to write, I lie with my eyes closed.

I feel my belly inflate and deflate to the rhythm of my resigned breathing, incapable of releasing my body from the heavy distractions that the unconscious places on it, regardless of its poor ability to withstand overloads.

Perhaps today, my mind is unaware that it is part of an indissoluble unit that breathes, needs to be fed and demands to execute its right to sleep and even dream from time to time.

Possibly I ignore that the gusts of wind I cause will end up breaking the foundations of my own house.

Maybe I just forgot that life is not about speed but distance.

Kinesics

Whoever has never perceived the malaise in an ungiven kiss is either lying or has never paid enough attention.

But if you can decipher the kinesics of an anguished kiss dying in the lips corner before birth, you will know how seconds hurt when they stretch to the point of languor.

Tacit Beauty

There is no photo to be taken as long as there is no eye willing to redefine the object in question.

It can be anything. The thing is to dare to discover and denounce, with an image, the tacit beauty that everything keeps.

A human fetus covered with formaldehyde in a glass jar, the endless eyelashes of an empty woman, the reflection of a house in the rotten water of a fountain, an old building, a modest river, a sensation, a scream of hate, a naked breast, an abandoned boat, and even a corpse in a medical school.

Everything can be turned into a visual pleasure. A camera and an eye lubricated with imprudence, madness, and sensitivity are sufficient to strip life of its nauseating ordinariness, prioritizing the tacit beauty that everything keeps.

Run away from ordinary aesthetics, from set phrases, flee from refined techniques, and any image theory, in short, from everything that tries to curtail the ontological need to make a stop anywhere at any time for the sheer pleasure of contemplating and taking a picture.

Imbalance

How arduous things become when both realities I live in do not dissolve.

My corporeal side is limited to being. It has no problems. However, my psyche is cooked.

The burning of the soul is unbearable when suddenly I find myself lost between the perceptions of the insubstantial revelry and the pleasures of spiritual well-being.

The inescapable need to dilute sensory pleasure and spiritual needs is overwhelming.

There's no better way to balance than going outside to hug a fat tree property of no one and recover the ability to feel impalpability.

Wednesday night

 

Tonight I am destined to ramble.

I will lie down in the backyard, not for too long, but long enough to enjoy the breeze that spring nights bring, and I will play to calculate the distance between the stars and my head.

I will distract myself for a few minutes to enjoy the silhouettes of the lights trembling over the river like spectres that lurk.

I will breathe deeply the cold air and I will feel how hot it expels after having passed through my entrails.

Tonight I am going to think a lot about the things that I am afraid to think about when I am at home.

I will not play music on the radio, I will sing my own songs and no one will be there to listen. I will talk to myself out loud and I will be happy to establish full communication with the self that no one knows.

I hope the moon rises.

Make it worth it

 There is nothing to say as long as the words do not boil bubbling in your mouth.

And for this to happen, there must be a powerful and almost perpetual fire inside your chest, warming sensations and senses to incubate and then calve ideas.

Ideas stirred by desire, ambition, recklessness and madness that will generate the strength to vomit them in someone else's face. Or the mirror if there is no one nearby who is worth the contraction of your soul.