El momento parece suspendido arrastrado sostenido por el
siguiente momento, como si el observador, este narrador furtivo y estático en
que me he convertido, desgranara el tiempo en palabras, mientras el mundo se
mueve ante mis ojos, mientras la vorágine difumina el presente en una estela efímera,
la concatenación universal de instantes perdidos, esos que no hago míos por
miedo, esos a los que veo pasar sin posibilidad de pausarlos o aun peor sin
posibilidad de ir para atrás.
La mancha degradada inteligible de movimientos cual
fantasmas del tiempo que me recuerdan mi status quo mi calvario, mi estigia
laguna quiescente y espástica.
Sucesión, concatenación, Rosario, peregrinación, caminata,
sendero, palabras sensatas que no logro usar, que las contemplo en la hoja, que
las dislumbro en un porvenir que se vuelve estela en el presente; mientras mi mano solo sabe tipear, mientras
mis miedos, mis complejos y el ojo siempre atento de quien dice me quiere
feliz, mientras la felicidad sea su definición
de la misma; va dejando que el vaho esmerile
la vista, cubriéndola de una túnica cenicienta, del monocromo infinito
del terror al movimiento.
Todo pasa, todos pasan, la respiración resulta un acto consiente,
cuando la vida, las vidas pasan y yo sigo en el rellano observando lo que podría
ser y no es, la pincelada simple de los instantes acaricia mis versos, les
susurra posibilidades, le cuenta como podría ser, pero aun así , solo son mis
manos las que no se detienen las que se convierten en micromovimiento, las que aun en la quietud en contra de todo escriben,
blasfeman , se ríen, viven la vida que yo no he tenido la valentía de asumir,
ellas son parte del paisaje, del vestigio poco nítido y hermoso que logra
hacer que siga en pie.
Cuantos han pasado, cuantos pasaran, como contar, como
medir, como priorizar un tiempo mezquino y egoísta, que no espera;como
recordar respirar; las manos en un baile tristemente cadencioso con reminiscencias
de música clásica, con dejo de poesías viejas e imágenes de un pueblo olvidado
en el tiempo.
Ante mis ojos la posibilidad me tienta, el miedo me
petrifica y las manos buscan ser el recordatorio de un acto inconsciente vuelto
conciencia, del ardor rojizo de unos ojos estáticos y el dolor de un pájaro azul
encerrado en mi cabeza.
Before my eyes
The moment seems suspended, dragged, held for the next moment; as if the observer, this furtive and static narrator that I have become, shells time into words, while the world moves before my eyes, while the maelstrom blurs the present, in a fleeting wake, the universal concatenation of lost moments, those that I don't do mine, out of fear, those that I see happen without the possibility of pausing them, or even worse without the possibility of going backwards.
The stain degraded, intelligible movements which ghosts of the time, that remind me of my status quo, my ordeal, my Styx, quiescent and spastic.
Succession, concatenation, Rosario, pilgrimage, walk, path, sensible words that I cannot use, which I contemplate on the leaf, which dazzle them in a future that becomes stele in the present; while my hand only knows how to type, while my fears, my complexes and the always attentive eye of those who say they want me happy, while happiness is their definition of it; he lets the fog grind his eyes, covering it with a cinderella robe, from the infinite monochrome of terror to the movement.
Everything happens, everyone passes, the breath is a conscious act, when life, lives pass, and I'm still on the landing observing what could be and is not, the simple brushstroke of the moments caresses my verses, whispers possibilities, He tells him how it could be, but even so, it is only my hands that do not stop those that become micromotion, those that even in the stillness against everything write, blaspheme, laugh, live the life that I have not had the courage to assume, they are part of the landscape, of the little clear and beautiful vestige that manages to keep it standing.
How many have passed, how many will happen, how to count, how to measure, how to prioritize a petty and selfish time, which does not wait, how to remember to breathe; hands in a sadly cadenious dance reminiscent of classical music, with old poems and images of a people forgotten in time.
Before my eyes
The moment seems suspended, dragged, held for the next moment; as if the observer, this furtive and static narrator that I have become, shells time into words, while the world moves before my eyes, while the maelstrom blurs the present, in a fleeting wake, the universal concatenation of lost moments, those that I don't do mine, out of fear, those that I see happen without the possibility of pausing them, or even worse without the possibility of going backwards.
The stain degraded, intelligible movements which ghosts of the time, that remind me of my status quo, my ordeal, my Styx, quiescent and spastic.
Succession, concatenation, Rosario, pilgrimage, walk, path, sensible words that I cannot use, which I contemplate on the leaf, which dazzle them in a future that becomes stele in the present; while my hand only knows how to type, while my fears, my complexes and the always attentive eye of those who say they want me happy, while happiness is their definition of it; he lets the fog grind his eyes, covering it with a cinderella robe, from the infinite monochrome of terror to the movement.
Everything happens, everyone passes, the breath is a conscious act, when life, lives pass, and I'm still on the landing observing what could be and is not, the simple brushstroke of the moments caresses my verses, whispers possibilities, He tells him how it could be, but even so, it is only my hands that do not stop those that become micromotion, those that even in the stillness against everything write, blaspheme, laugh, live the life that I have not had the courage to assume, they are part of the landscape, of the little clear and beautiful vestige that manages to keep it standing.
How many have passed, how many will happen, how to count, how to measure, how to prioritize a petty and selfish time, which does not wait, how to remember to breathe; hands in a sadly cadenious dance reminiscent of classical music, with old poems and images of a people forgotten in time.
Before my eyes the possibility tempts me, the fear petrifies me and the hands seek to be the reminder of an unconscious act made aware, of the reddish burning of static eyes and the pain of a blue bird locked in my head.
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