Serendipity?

I don´t care anymore. Who cares? I feel how my chest is being opressed, how much I am sick at heart. At least, it is not opressed anymore by the hope, the hope of finding. More by the processes of resignation and serenity. It is more like I am converging with myself in a small, no-air bubble. 'Cause I'm inside, inside of myself and my stupid feelings and my even more idiot conscience. This conscience that keeps pronouncing your name, and other 100 guys' names. You know I don't want it this way, you know how much I desire to change. You know how many times I've prayed and cried to change my world, my life, my mind. I can't. I do not know what else to do with myself. I do not know what can I do with this unworthy dirty body when nobody is with me, embracing me, kissing me. I do not know how to spend my time or even though my life. I'm lost. I've been lost for years and I know it'll be the same, no matter what, no matter where. Ironic, huh? I start writing saying I don't know anything, but I'm here actually writing one thing that I know which at the same time means I do not comprehend nothing at all and I'll never do. You know it. I know it. Let's face it. No matter how many teardrops comes out from eyelids, I will be standing there waiting. Waiting for what I know, for what works for a couple of hours. Not waiting for what I've been waiting the last couple of years. As I said, no more hope of finding, or forgiveness. It seems like it is just designed for me. Static. No motion, no action taken by me. What else? if nothing matters. What else if the only people who gave me the most precious present, took it away from my hands? 'Cause I don't know how to keep it perhaps. Perhaps all my effort is never enough. Never enough. Never enough is what I've always been for you. Never enough is what I know you are for me, but still. Who cares? No more hope. Lots of pain. Lots of resignation also. This opression that I am feeling and keeps me apart from sleeping is like the anguish that an old lady feels although she knows she is going to die. Because I know and I chose this way, this path. I know how it is, but still hurting, still leaving scars, but no more deep and fres cuts into my flesh. I am converging with myself in this small bubble, and my breath is fading away. It is extinguishing slowly... or quickly, who knows? I am listening to you, talking about her, the 100 hers that always come to torture me. But you know what? I'm not crying this time. Scars, but no cuts. Resignation. If I never expect nothing, there's no way I will be dissapointed for something that never came. Like this whole bullshit. You know I mean it, but you also know how stupid I am. You know how many times I've tried to keep you by my side with yours 100 guys' name but I haven't realized how to do it yet. I'm confused. I have this anguish burning my inside because it'll always hurt. It will always burn my inside, like an old lady who cannot get used to the idea of dying. Who accepts it because it's essential and blame god at the same time, but underneath the sheets she prays fervently to him because she is scared. I'm not scared. Maybe I am. Still I'm standing here with my feet on the ground and my eyes dry with the memento of crying and tears. Not even one for you with your 100 names.

Los amorosos

Los amorosos callan.
El amor es el silencio más fino,
el más tembloroso, el más insoportable.
Los amorosos buscan,
los amorosos son los que abandonan,
son los que cambian, los que olvidan.
Su corazón les dice que nunca han de encontrar,
no encuentran, buscan.
Los amorosos andan como locos
porque están solos, solos, solos,
entregándose, dándose a cada rato,
llorando porque no salvan al amor.
Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos
viven al día, no pueden hacer más, no saben.
Siempre se están yendo,
siempre, hacia alguna parte.
Esperan,
no esperan nada, pero esperan.
Saben que nunca han de encontrar.
El amor es la prórroga perpetua,
siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro.
Los amorosos son los insaciables,
los que siempre —¡qué bueno!— han de estar solos.
Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento.
Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos.
Las venas del cuello se les hinchan
también como serpientes para asfixiarlos.
Los amorosos no pueden dormir
porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos.
En la obscuridad abren los ojos
y les cae en ellos el espanto.
Encuentran alacranes bajo la sábana
y su cama flota como sobre un lago.
Los amorosos son locos, sólo locos,
sin Dios y sin diablo.
Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas
temblorosos, hambrientos,
a cazar fantasmas.
Se ríen de las gentes que lo saben todo,
de las que aman a perpetuidad, verídicamente,
de las que creen en el amor como en una lámpara de inagotable aceite.
Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua,
a tatuar el humo, a no irse.
Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor.
Nadie ha de resignarse.
Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse.
Los amorosos se avergüenzan de toda conformación.
Vacíos, pero vacíos de una a otra costilla,
la muerte les fermenta detrás de los ojos,
y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada
en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente.
Les llega a veces un olor a tierra recién nacida,
a mujeres que duermen con la mano en el sexo, complacidas,
a arroyos de agua tierna y a cocinas.
Los amorosos se ponen a cantar entre labios
una canción no aprendida
Y se van llorando, llorando
la hermosa vida.



Jaime Sabines