[ matter of fact, we look extremely good on each other ]

Viste, nene? Ya nadie escucha lo que va contando tu remera; y yo acá – haciendo burbujas con detergente, tratando de elevarme con la sutil cantidad etílica que cabe, preci(o)sa, en el caparazón de un caracol / Ves? Ves que ya casi nadie ve? Ves que todo alrededor miente, o falsea, nos cantan en agudos y las calles allá abajo parecen ser tan graves / Viste, nene? Ya nadie da un peso por las cosas que alguna vez quisieron, y así se van a ir – ya nadie tiene los delirios centrados en lo que los hace feliz / Y yo acá, tratando de arrancarte las partes de vida que se te queman del lado de adentro de la garganta; ventilando los cuerpos en el colchón, escuchando lo que va contando tu remera.

I wear you on my sleeve.

[ Pediremos que nadie se de cuenta de que estamos durmiendo escondidos debajo de esta gran piedra; y también pediremos que la misma se convierta en un monumento adelantado del mañana aún por-venir, aún por-llegar, todavía por-despertar – y finalmente pediremos que llueva un granizo de adoquines sobre esta misma calle para que nos entierre aún más y así caminos armar, túneles cavar, vías andar y una tierra subterránea fundar. Negros como la noche, podrían haberse ido hasta ser confundidos con simples sombras. Sin embargo, se quedaron – y se los puede escuchar hablar y dialogar bajo un tono similar, por debajo de la tierra conocida y habitada, ya demasiado lejos del exterior y sus fachadas vacías desde los ojos de la soledad y la locura, atravesando muros que sólo gritan. Las espaldas y los cuerpos. La diferencia entre el ritmo y la cadencia.

I want all of the same things that you want, I do. And I want them with you.]

I believe things happen the way they were planned to happen.
There’s no escape, you cannot twist what’s been written in your stars. Life is made by incidents, even good ones. And an incident usually doesn’t mark anyone’s life, it just goes away… Sometimes that means that a new corpus is about to be born. Sometimes that means that once the fierce is broken, it will never be repaired.

I may not be the girl you think I am, I’m just the girl you’ve found.

After all this time and all these things, now I’m completely sure that the loudest noise doesn’t belong to the words. Silence is always telling a little bit more… It’s like the sound of rain, you stop everything you’re doing just to listen to the rain. Silence is the thunder that can shake you up in the middle of the most beautiful, warm spring night. I’m right to say that silence and I share a love/hate relationship.

I remember: there was silence, and then our bodies tensed up as they got closer.

And now there is silence.
Silence is fire.
And I choose to burn.

I believe things happen the way they were planned to happen.
Lately, my dreams were breaking at the middle of the night but now I can say that it's not the same any longer: my black memories shattering my white hands and your presence lying beside me in just one very same bed are my strongest convictions for today. A million little mountains hidden in the pillow set the unconfort in my head, and my eyes open, dreamy buy annoyed, for me to bury my fists in that goddamed pillow to try to find some peace. And then I see your face, traveling halfway deep slumber. I realize you and you release life in me and lately, that ain't unusual. You cast my shadows away, you show me, you make sure that even asleep you are here with me because you know there are some things that I just cannot bear all alone. I cannot be me alone. But it's not the same. The warm protection that holds my body while I'm dreaming away is you, and it's not the same.

My head flies back to the soft hole my fists left on the pillow and my skull fits perfectly into the now comfortable, welcoming space. I lie back as I keep my sight leant on you. Your face becomes my last memory before I fall asleep and it will be the first image landing on my eyes when I wake up. Even asleep you’re here with me - and it's not the same, definitely. Eyes on you, you ask about the thoughts that cross my mind - well lover, these are the thoughts I've been spreading all along those 32 aglow blocks.

Life burns inside of you just as you release life in me, and lately, that ain't unusual.

I remember being afraid of blindness when I was a child: waking up one day and realizing my eyes have no aims any longer. All this time it was before my eyes and I know - having my eyes open or closed has always been the same. Blindness was a constant then - still eyes closed. Life can be such an unbearable thing if you force yourself to live behind your own shadows, most people already know: determination without action just means illusion.

How much time can you afford wasting in your own life?
How much do think you can possibly keep on going until you run blind?
Hoy many times a day do you repeat to yourself “it’s not easy”?

I can describe your presence as the chiaroscuro that reflects the rays of light most times people turn their backs on. I can narrate about your silhouette crashing and burning into a million different pieces each time a given situation would make you laugh or just gaze. Lying here or there- it just doesn’t mean the same. Your body is much more than skin and bones, pleasure to my senses - it didn't take you that long, you're just in time; and you're more than welcome.

Other songs are resounding in my head lately- the old familiar noises are nowhere to be heard now. Double exposure: the ears get used to these new sounds as the old traditions slowly fade away. Symbiosis. There’s nothing you can do to prevent these things from happen. As soon as the voice gets used to all these changes, your whole existence has been modified. You cannot touch that. You cannot change that. The new you has been born and you have been the most important witness in the entire, unpredictable process.

At first, these new tunes are kind of weird, resounding all around you like a very perverse way of getting in touch with yourself. But the darkest you find it, the more you get to like it. Then it’s time for oblivion to rush back at you, erasing all scars from within; leaving you in your purest state. Inalterable, almost celestial, to say - immaculate.

Devotion leads the intrusion. Then dependence shows up as well as fear does. You are now absolutely conscious of what you are, of who you are. You learn to love and understand yourself in a different way from others. Now you start to consider the word “protection” as an undeniable truth. You get to know yourself in your deepest essence and when that finally happens; you are ready to give up those things that don’t belong to you anymore. Your whole life, full of dreams as it was, was a dream in itself. You are the one you always knew you were; only now you’re starting to recognize your own identity.

Silence remains by your side. Always. It’s your own responsibility to learn how to be sheltered by it. Your silence can communicate even more than your longest explanation. It’s rhetoric, even spiritual. Silence can create the space you need for taking a breath and wait for the miracle to come. Your silence can fill all those black holes that could never be compensated with words. Words... They usually fail just because they say too much, but do nothing - oh, how the mighty have fallen.

This must be the closest approximation to the normal parameters of trust and care – plausible, eyes pendant on every move, and the eyelashes: some kind of aura piercing your human condition, keeping you reserved undercover in a way, divided into a million different pieces of consciousness and unconsciousness fast and slow, wild and tender. Behind the barrier we’ve built up in our minds there are these well-known silhouettes dancing in the air, fitting our bodies and making a similar shadow of them, shattering ourselves into lots of different pieces of humanity spread all over the place like little souvenires of faith resting positively somewhere, all over the bed.

So hybrid that becomes uncontrollable. So easy that’s almost impossible. So superfluous that ends up being deep. So fragile that all its splendor comes out from all its strength. So sinister that becomes adorable. So bright. So diaphanous. So perfect that makes you tremble. So rustically combined that ends up fitting in almost harmonically. So special that even turning away, remains the same. Leaving the dream and stepping into the real world is never easy: there is some sort of strange inertia, a fleeting but somehow everlasting instant when the body and the mind seem to be two different parts of the same equation, unable to manage themselves to find a way to interact.

Dawn. Cloudy sky, wet ground - somewhere out there, it must be raining.

It’s more than simply company: someone present.
You sleep. You dream away.
Are you gone?
Are you listening, watching, waiting, learning?
Can I be you? Go through you? Surround you?
Somewhere out there, it must be raining.

I may not be the girl you think I am,
I know beneath this sleek exterior there's less than meets the eye.
I may not even be what you've been looking for, your wildest-but-yet-mundane dream come true.
I may not be the girl you think I am, but I may be the girl for you.

Now there is silence.
Silence is fire.
And it’s a must for you to choose to burn.

I've never been much of a believer,
but I do believe things happen the way they were planned to happen.
I believe in the things that happen.
I believe in you.
I do.

And why do you keep on searching for a magnified truth when you are a truth in yourself?
Why do you keep on believing the unbelievable, reaching out for a world that doesn’t belong to you anymore?
What is it? What drives you? Religion? Love? Power? Uncertainties?

What?

Why do you keep on pretending that you’re someone you’re not, when you can be so much more that simply that?
Why is it that your face stands out in the faceless crowd?

Yes, all truth is blind and all human being is just an intangible body made of feelings that go far beyond your skin and bones. More than flesh and muscles, a whole civilization taking notice of how powerful a simple soul can be. Everything you feel, that incontrollable strength forcing you to react, your fists raised, your body tensed, your teeth clenched.

I’m right to say that silence and I share a love/hate relationship… The shadow of who you were, walking through the one you’re meant to be, your very own asexual sacrifice, whispers in blindness, embedded in all your theological speculations that just ran out of date, just like the sexual eloquence of a prefect kiss. Panacea, take your aim and name it after the first meaningful silhouette that comes to your mental cinema.

Your fists raised, your body tensed, your teeth clenched.

(so, since you wanna be with me, you'll have to follow through)

En el huracán diminutamente inmenso, allá afuera, en las calles, es donde se caldea el sentido de la pertenencia. Los árboles y sus raíces de soledad; las veredas con cruces y encuentros, en festivales sónicos, como las teclas de algún piano suburbano y posmoderno. Es en los ojos nómades en donde residen los anhelos. La luz con la que se interceptan los puentes, como brazos que tienden redes – allí, donde descansan los deseos junto con aquellos ojos nómades. En la vorágine mecánica de los avances y los retrocesos es donde duerme la sensibilidad. En cada partícula invisible que compone al aire. En cada grafismo que impregna cada momento; en cada suceso giratorio es donde residen los secretos, donde se gesta el ritual. Es donde apoyamos los pies – la vereda opuesta al serpentario. Desgastada me dibujo y me esfumo, y me vuelvo a crear. Me escondo y aparezco, ya sólo imagen, jamás semejanza. Es donde queda la sensibilidad que denota en cada uno de esos rostros, la profundidad del alma sugerida, las partículas en particular desde el principio de aquel tiempo nómade – son días diferentes desde hace días hasta aquí.

(we’re happy - and it shows)

("Para Alicia, en el país de mis maravillas" - André Bretón.)

"Vuelvo, una vez más, al estado de vigilia. Estoy obligado a considerarlo como un fenómeno de interferencia. (Si es el sol, o el amanecer, o la descripción que nunca termina de agotarse porque siempre aparece algo nuevo que altera la escena y la hace pasar a nuevos estratos, la impregna de colores que a su vez, son tramas) Y no sólo ocurre que el espíritu da muestras, en estas condiciones, de una extraña tendencia a la desorientación sino que, lo que es todavía más, parece que el espíritu, en su funcionamiento normal, se limite a obedecer sugerencias procedentes de aquella noche profunda de la que yo acabo de extraerle. (Si es la canción que todavía nadie escribió, que se encuentra editada como single en las bateas de la cadena discográfica que todavía nadie fundó, en un país que jamás nadie visitó, en una galaxia que nadie sabe que existe) Por muy bien condicionado que esté, el equilibrio del espíritu es siempre relativo. (Llegó hasta el límite de la conciencia, reconoció la canción y asintió por el acierto de haber salido de la cama incluso en plena tormenta) El espíritu apenas se atreve a expresarse y, caso de que lo haga, se limita a constatar que tal idea, tal mujer, le hace efecto. (La infinita habitación llena de humo, con aquellos recorridos enmarcados en el piso, cualquier mero acontecimiento que llegue a suceder sólo acompañará a los ombligos y sus flores, los zapatos y las mentes, los colores y las sombras) Es incapaz de expresar de qué clase de efecto se trata, lo cual únicamente sirve para darnos la medida de su subjetivismo. (Pero seguramente pensarán que siempre habrá quien siga la orden del objetivismo, y del intrincado contrato social) Aquella idea, aquella mujer, conturban al espíritu, le inclinan a no ser tan rígido, producen el efecto de aislarle durante un segundo del disolvente en que se encuentra sumergido, de depositarle en el cielo, de convertirle en el bello precipitado que puede llegar a ser, en el bello precipitado que es. (En el boulevard donde caminan los Otros, los dueños del engranaje social, todavía hay chicos que esperan que sea sábado a la tarde para que alguien los lleve a dar una vuelta en la calesita. Las sonrisas, rastros de algún sol) Carente de esperanzas de hallar las causas de lo anterior, el espíritu recurre al azar, divinidad más oscura que cualquiera otra, a la que atribuye todos sus extravíos. (Pero entonces nos llamarán por nuestros nombres fingiendo conocernos y cuestionarán nuestros pasos, harán una gran orgía social a la que no van a invitarnos, y pretenderán saberlo todo, reirán de lo gracioso, y de lo triste también) ¿Y quién podrá demostrarme que la luz bajo la que se presenta esa idea que impresiona al espíritu, bajo la que advierte aquello que más ama en los ojos de aquella mujer, no sea precisamente el vínculo que le une al sueño, que le encadena a unos presupuestos básicos que, por su propia culpa, ha olvidado? (Pero mientras esperamos que lleguen, queda esa canción fantasma, quedan esos chicos en su calesita cada tarde. Quedan los pasos. Quedan los rastros amarillos, y las señales de algún sol. Es una tendencia meramente social y automática, pero en verdad esto también debería ser susceptible de ser llamado amanecer) ¿Y si no fuera así, de qué sería el espíritu capaz? Quisiera entregarle la llave que le permitiera penetrar en estos pasadizos."

Flipside:
Manifiesto Surrealista – André Bretón.

A To. Porque me lo pidió. Porque se lo merece. Y porque quiero.

(dawn is that certain point in time when you can't say for sure what it feels like to be alive)

There comes the museum of all things great and small. The back against the wall, crimson specter, the orchard walls have learnt so much. So they creep upon your feet, telling secrets they should not be spreading, lying them all down on the ground. You see the tales bending behind the curtain – they don’t fit in the sofa either anymore, just try and take those damn chances: go fly a kite while your head hangs by a thin line between the fingerprints scattered upon your shoulders and the tiptoes that starving, pass themselves by with no signs of life at all. Your blood and veins are not a rhetorical system any longer: it’s not a red/blue colorization affair as long as you can see. Crimson and shallow, there’s a white wizard wearing a crown punctiliously made by little, shattered pieces of glass. He wears no hat, he’s seen it all not yet his eyes are tepid and somewhat crimson. What is there living in our blood is more than aquarelles in shades of red and blue, crimson and black; prisms of mundane. The room was already melting but fingers as cold as winter wind burnt out the mattress upon the blanket of the inner world with a little varsity red lighter anyway. The white wizard jotted down a few things and went downstairs: “there comes the museum of all things great and small” – he was drenched in watercolors. Speculation can go fucking shit through a mattress made of feathers, crimson and shallow, the manifestation of all things that blend before they choose to burn. She was crawling on the floor yet tripping over her feet. Her eyes embedded in the sunken words that had no ink sinking in their silhouettes. The orchard walls were casting all sorts of shadows way back then. Crimson and shallow - tender; diamonds on the making. There were some sentences that simply could not be written: the orchard walls had been witness of such reflection yet they were still outrageously white as the sound that never wills to speak.