paisajes surreales

01abr14

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Thu, 18 Sep 2014 05:07:00 +0000

Todavía duelen
todas las muertes que he sufrido
vuelvo a morir cuando las recuerdo
y las recuerdo siempre
Todavía duelen
las miradas lejanas de amigos
que dejaron de serlo
Todavía duele, y dolerá siempre
la promesa avasallante de la soledad
y la conciencia reconfortante y aterradora
de que cualquiera puede ser
el último respiro
Todavía duelen
todas las ilusiones y sueños
que mueren con cada una de mis muertes
todavía duelen cuando vuelven a nacer
Y duele inmensamente todo el mal
que hay en el mundo
cada acción cargada de desdén
y no puedo, y nunca podré evitarlo
duele tanto esa soledad...
y duele también aquella
que está mas allá de los amigos
más allá de la familia
más allá del amor
Duele la soledad eterna,
amiga,
sofocante.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 04:00:00 +0000

Silencio
Otra vez el silencio
El silencio profundo y siniestro
otra vez me acompaña
otra vez me desgarra
se hace infinito y me hace eterna
amigo bastardo y mal amado
odioso en su abismal encanto
enemigo cruel e impúdico
descaradamente sincero
otra vez se hace vacío
otra vez se hace espejo
Otra vez EL SILENCIO

16.dic.2013

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Fri, 17 Jan 2014 18:10:00 +0000

Este cuerpo, mi cuerpo

decaído

exuda venenos que no son míos

ya no es mi cuerpo

es del tiempo

Pronto dejará de ser mía también mi mente

los venenos carcomen mis entrañas

y pudren de a poco mi piel

Pero ya no importa

porque no es mi cuerpo

y no son mis entrañas

son las del tiempo.

¡Arde! El dolor es intenso

se licua mi interior por los venenos

¿Quién los puso ahí? No sé

¿Quién los hizo mi sangre?

Hacer un corte, verla fluir

es una linda imagen

visualizar los contrastes entre el rojo artificial

y mi piel blancuzca ya casi del todo fría

Mil imágenes se elevan

ninguna es mía

y tampoco lo es esta

ahora es tuya, es del tiempo

todo es de él

es que ya no le queda ningún diente

¡incontinente! ése es el tiempo

fétido mucho antes que mi cuerpo

muerto y vivo

pero MUERTO

El mar blanco,

el mar eterno...

se ha secado

el invento más viejo que tenemos ha muerto

nadie va a acudir a su velorio

nadie que no sea también velado.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 30 Dec 2013 04:05:00 +0000

En medio de la ciudad
cuando parece que ya no se puede
respirar de tanto ruido artificial
escucho el trinar de un pájaro
y un buche de aire infla mi pecho
nuevamente
Pero el canto del pequeño salvador
pronto, demasiado pronto, se ve
ahogado una vez más por las pesadas
máquinas a quienes la calle pertenece.

Como se hace tarde los vehículos
se hacen escasos, y el filtro que formaban
se abre cada vez mas
para dar paso a la naturaleza
pero ésta también se hace muda
en la noche, y solo quedan unos
cuantos minutos antes de que
el silencio lo abarque todo.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 02:39:00 +0000

Maldita niebla
mística niebla
llena de poderes
que encantan el alma
y sesgan la razón
compañera del miedo
de la más profunda
belleza.
Blanco velo
frío al tacto
siempre soledad
prima de la bruma
de carácter desigual.

Portadora de secretos
cautiva en su inocencia
con su estático pasar
se cuela entre los huesos
hasta llegar al alma
y la abriga con su frío
melancólico
envuelve entre sedas
de romanticismo
permanece para siempre
en ojos testigos
pero deja el mundo,
en su pasar estático,
como vino...

--------

Damn fog
mystic fog
filled with powers
that enchant the soul
and bias reason
mate of fear
of the deepest
beauty.
White veil
cold to touch
always loneliness
cousin of haze
of uneven character.

Secrets carrier
captive in its innocence
with its static passing
slips between the bones
until it reaches the soul
and warms it with its
melancholic cold
wraps it in silks
of romanticism
remains forever
in witness eyes
but leaves the world
in its static pass
as it came...

Brief essay on solitude.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 02:46:00 +0000

I’ve got a lot of friends, a loving family, work and classmates; but I’d like to highlight that I have a lot of friends.

Few are the hours that I can get a day for my own enjoyment, and also few are the moments that I can share with my friends. It is true that nowadays we can get the cell phone out of our pockets, press a few buttons and we could talk with whoever we’d like; or we could write a few words asking about their wellbeing.

It is a fact that in the greyest days one needs only to switch a few lamps, even when its light cannot be compared to the warm and brightest yellow of the sun caressing the naked skin.

I never liked speaking in numbers, and I won’t start doing so now, the truth is that I have got a lot of friends, they are a few, or some… that is a matter of numbers; they are enough for me.

The problem doesn’t reside in having or not having friends. It doesn’t reside in human beings’ ordinary feeling, but in the uttermost distress of the soul. I am a well loved person, this I can assure you; it is inside my ordinary and fundamental feel, I am a loved person. These sayings are without any hint of a lie. I am surrounded by people who love me deeply, but solitude remains, soft and uncertain; in every little atom, in the smallest unit, in the particles that go into my body with every breath. Solitude in the core, in the root, solitude that makes us slaves, but even more, solitude that sets us free. The one who lies in the primal mystery of birth, in the greatest of all: existence; in the most terrifying: death. And even when you won’t admit it, I know that each one of us, living beings, is always afraid of the imminent.

Solitude is generally biased or ignored; the interpersonal bounds grow stronger, everyday life, breakfast, work, the street, the wind and everything the world shares with us, or what’s more, all we share with the world. We share also our solitude. Solitude is found in thought; even when you’ve read such and such authors, and even if you set upon your chest the insignia of their thoughts, when you take it into your mind, and consideration, it becomes yours, and it becomes solitude. Even when you discuss your own ideas with your best friends, or when you accept theirs, and for a brief moment the idea floats in the collective thought, once you absorb it, it becomes solitude.

Many times solitude gives you sadness; many times it is necessary to find peace. Maybe we are all connected, one could embrace the sincere belief of a spiritual collectiveness, one could recite mantras or preach the gospels, but in the end it is always the individual who makes such decision; not the one of being, but the one of believing. It always remains in each one of us the power of choosing, the free will.

Sometimes it grows too big, too intense, and the body begins to suffer, sometimes even unnoticed – although in general this is not the case. Those times in which solitude is so intense, hope becomes scarce and mean. Routine becomes smothery and many times the solution is to escape to even lonelier places, may they be tangible or not, places of the thought.

Sometimes, the too intense solitude becomes a friend, whom we go to in moments of profound and distressing grief; it crushes the throat, and twists it in rage; I still don’t know why it would do this… sometimes it opens your chest and allows in the most pure air, filling the core with warmth and freshness at once; only solitude has this ability.

One of the liveliest memories I have of solitude, is actually sharing a sunset with friends; the feeling was just mine, even if I were to describe it a thousand times; as much as the best writers, the most skilled ones describe it a million times, I know it was just mine, and it mutates in my mind, and that makes it solitude.

Also this brief essay is solitude; even when you understand it as I conceived it, even when you agree with what is says, when you read each word you make it yours, and you keep it in your own being, and you understand and accept it, and chew it, and regurgitate it, and modify it, an idea, as much shared as it may be, becomes solitude within each one of us.

I could tell you of my most terrible grief, of my darkest hours, and you could give me a warm understanding hug, you could try to put yourself in my place, feel empathy… but it is not your grief, and I do not want it to be either, and I would forever thank you for your compassion. But it is my grief, only I feel it the way I feel it, only I understand its magnitude to the fullest, even when many times I do not understand the reason, and I call it once again, I call it for the last time: solitude.

Not even the word solitude actually describes it; it is Spleen, it is death, it is dark swallows, it is Solaris, it is swamp, it is extreme desolation, it is a man turned into an insect, it is the jungle and the desert, it is a big metropolis. The universe wrapped in it, and sowed together with its fine threads, existing because of it.

Breve ensayo sobre la soledad

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 02:44:00 +0000

Tengo muchos amigos, una familia unida, compañeros de estudio y de trabajo; pero quisiera destacar que tengo muchos amigos.

Pocas son las horas del día que puedo dedicar a mi misma por completo y también escasean los momentos para compartir con amigos. Es cierto que hoy por hoy basta con tomar del bolsillo el teléfono celular, apretar unos pocos botones y podremos hablar con quien queramos; o bien escribir algunas palabras para preguntar por su bienestar.

Es cierto que en los días más grises y lúgubres basta con encender algunas lámparas, aunque nada se compare a la calidez del sol: el amarillo más radiante acariciando la piel desnuda.

Nunca me gustó hablar de números y no voy a comenzar a hacerlo ahora, lo cierto es que tengo muchos amigos, son unos cuantos o algunos pocos… eso es cuestión de números; son los suficientes para mí.

El problema no reside en tener o no tener amigos, tampoco en el sentir ordinario del ser humano sino en el más profundo y oculto desasosiego del alma. Soy una persona amada, esto lo puedo afirmar con certeza; y además está inserto en mi sentir ordinario y fundamental, soy una persona querida. Éstas son afirmaciones sin el más mínimo dejo de mentira; estoy rodeada de personas a las que quiero muchísimo, pero la soledad permanece, tenue e incierta, en cada pequeño átomo, en la más mínima unidad, en las partículas que ingresan a mi cuerpo en cada inhalación. La soledad en el núcleo, la soledad raíz, la soledad que nos esclaviza, pero más aún, nos hace libres. Es esa que se encuentra en el misterio primordial del nacimiento; en el mayor de todos: la existencia; y en el más aterrador: la muerte. Y aunque no lo admitas, se que cada uno de nosotros, seres vivos, teme siempre a la inminente.

La soledad se ve generalmente sesgada o ignorada, haciéndose más importante los lazos interpersonales, la vida diaria, el desayuno, el trabajo, la calle, el viento y todo lo que el mundo nos arroja para hacernos un hogar. Pero siempre se mantiene, tenue, serena, la soledad en los lazos interpersonales, en el viento y en todo lo que el mundo comparte con nosotros y más aún, en todo lo que nosotros compartimos con el mundo. Compartimos también la soledad.

La soledad se encuentra en el pensamiento, por más que hayas leído a los autores tales o cuales, y pongas en tu pecho la insignia de su pensamiento, al evaluarlo se hace tuyo, y se hace soledad. Aún cuando discutes tus ideas con los mejores amigos o cuando aceptas las de ellos, y por in breve momento flote en el colectivo, una vez que la absorbes se hace soledad.

La soledad muchas veces genera tristeza, muchas veces es necesaria para encontrar la paz. Tal vez estemos todos conectados, uno podría mezclar su conciencia en la sincera creencia de la colectividad espiritual o mental, uno podría recitar mantras y promulgar salmos, pero en definitiva es siempre el individuo quién toma esa decisión, no la de ser o no ser, sino la de creer. Siempre permanece en el individuo, en cada uno de nosotros la decisión, el libre albedrío.

A veces se hace demasiado grande, demasiado intensa, el cuerpo comienza a padecerla, por más que el individuo no lo note, aunque generalmente ese no es el caso. Esas veces en que la soledad es demasiado intensa la esperanza se vuelve escasa y mezquina, la rutina se hace agobiante, y muchas veces la solución es escapar a lugares aún más solitarios, pudiendo ser lugares físicos o lugares intangibles, del pensamiento.

A veces la soledad demasiado intensa se convierte en una amiga, es a quien acudimos en los momentos de profunda y desconsoladora pena; estruja la garganta, la retuerce con rabia; todavía no sé por qué haría esto… hay veces en que abre el pecho y deja entrar el aire más puro, llenando el núcleo con calidez y frescura al mismo tiempo; sólo la soledad tiene esta facultad.

Uno de los recuerdos más vívidos que tengo de la soledad, es justamente compartiendo una puesta de sol con amigos; el sentimiento era sólo mío, por más que lo describa mil veces; por más que lo describan un millón de veces los escritores más hábiles, sé que era solo mío, y que en mi mente muta, y que eso lo hace soledad.

También este breve ensayo es soledad; aunque lo entiendas tal cual yo lo concebí, aunque estés de acuerdo con todo lo que expresa, al leer cada palabra la haces tuya, y la guardas en tu propio ser, y la entiendes y la aceptas, la masticas, la regurgitas, la modificas. Una idea, por más compartida que sea, en cada persona se hace soledad.

Podría contarte de mis más terribles penas, de mis zonas más oscuras, y tú podrías darme un abrazo cariñoso y comprensivo, podrías intentar ponerte en mi lugar, sentir empatía… pero no son tus penas, y tampoco quiero que lo sean, y agradecería infinitamente tu compasión; pero son mis penas, que únicamente yo siento como yo las siento, que únicamente yo comprendo en su totalidad, aunque muchas veces no comprenda su porqué, y las llamo una vez más, por última vez: soledad.

Ya ni siquiera la palabra soledad llega a describirla realmente; es Spleen, es muerte, es oscuras golondrinas, es Solaris, es ciénaga, es desolación extrema, es un hombre convertido en insecto, es la selva y el desierto, es una gran metrópolis. El universo envuelto en ella y tejido con sus finos hilos, existente a causa de ella.

Rambling at a place of finite.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 06:39:00 +0000

There’s a moment in the middle of the night, in the city where I live, when the streets are calm. You can almost see no cars or buses. It is beautiful then, but like any other quiet city, sound asleep at night. But then, there are these trucks, and they go very slowly, stopping every once in a while. These trucks are full of water, and the people in charge go around washing the sidewalks. Nothing spectacular you may say. But then the smell of wet earth, it takes me back to my home in the country-side, it takes me back to nature.

How amazed I am by our minds! At one point we are in the middle of a crowded city, and triggered by a smell, or a noise or some sensation or feeling and we are in the middle of a field, watching the stars up in the sky, wondering about our existence, or maybe about love; or who knows what. It is incredible how we can be at terrible places, enduring the worst situations, and by just some small inflection in the surroundings, in time and space, we can get elsewhere. We can go wherever we please, do whatever we want, and even become someone else entirely. We can be whoever we want, at the warmth insights of our minds.

So I’m back at the main street of the city. Maybe I wasn’t feeling so well, or maybe it was just another usual day, distant from being an important day, and I get this spark, the lightning strikes and I know I am nothing in the universe. But I can also see the connections of it all. And I get it, regardless of whatever may come our way, and whatever may happen, everything is going to be OK, because everything is going to keep being.

Existence is as vast as inexistence. Infinity turns into nothing and is re-made. It doesn’t matter if you love opera for example, or if you hate it, because it is everywhere, and so is rap, blues, or the type of music you like and hate. And not even types matter, since one is everything and everything is one. It is only a matter of finding the connections and let them be, and twist them, break them, forget them. It is a matter of letting yourself be, and letting yourself fall into oblivion. Let yourself go and exonerate everyone of your ideas, and then share yours and theirs.

Our minds are infinity and finite. Duality reigns; even more… multiplicity does. There are as many “yous” as you want, nothing will define you and everything will. Life and death are nothing, they are a part of existence and inexistence, and whatever billion things come in-between. Convincing your mind, or getting your mind to convince you to be whatever you want. And molding perception the way you want; entering the gates, or staying at the threshold, are all possible ways. And it is not even a decision you’ll have to make, it doesn’t really matters, it is no longer about give or take. It never was.

Now I’m going back to the wet streets again. Everything is so serene, and truthful. The decay of the night is soon to start becoming, and the awareness of the day kicks in. But it doesn’t matter, because the light of day can also be the sound of the rain. It can also become a humming bee or a mocking bird. And the cars of cold harsh steel can turn into shame, become disgrace and then grandness. It doesn’t matter when, where or where, once the trigger is set. Help the mind through the many gates of awareness; guide it into decay, like the night, and the singing of the mocking bird. You are nothing, you are two, you are everything, you are finite and infinite, and you will soon cease to exist… like me. Like forever is stuck at a moment of silence, of resilience, sitting quietly by a white fence. All faces gone, all of mentality fades.

Divagando en un lugar finito.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 06:38:00 +0000

Hay un momento en medio de la noche en la ciudad en que vivo, cuando las calles quedan en calma. Casi no se ven autos u ómnibus. Es hermoso ese momento, pero tanto como sucede en cualquier ciudad que duerme profundamente en la noche. Luego, aparecen estos camiones, que van muy lento por los bordes, parando cada tanto. Éstos están llenos de agua, y la gente a cargo camina de un lado a otro lavando las veredas, nada espectacular. Pero entonces el olor a tierra mojada me lleva de regreso a mi hogar en el campo, me lleva de regreso a la naturaleza.

¡Es increíble cómo funcionan nuestras mentes! En un momento estamos en medio de una ciudad superpoblada y luego, provocado por un olor, o un ruido, o alguna sensación o sentimiento, estamos de regreso en medio de un campo, mirando las estrellas, preguntándonos por nuestra propia existencia, o tal vez preguntándonos sobre el amor; o quién sabe qué. Es increíble cómo podemos estar en lugares horribles, en las peores situaciones, y a causa de una mínima inflexión del entorno, en el tiempo y el espacio, podemos estar en otro lugar. Podemos ir a donde queramos, hacer lo que queramos y hasta convertirnos en otra persona o ser totalmente diferente. Podemos ser quienes queramos en el cálido interior de nuestra mente.

Estoy de nuevo en la calle principal de la ciudad, tal vez no me estaba sintiendo muy bien, o tal vez fue otro día usual, carente de importancia, cuando siento esta chispa, este rayo me golpea y sé que soy nada en el universo. Pero también puedo ver las conexiones del todo, y lo entiendo, sé que no importa qué pueda estar en nuestro camino, qué pueda pasar, todo va a estar bien, porque todo seguirá siendo.

La existencia es tan vasta como la inexistencia. El infinito se convierte en nada y es re hecho. No importa si amas la ópera, por ejemplo, o si la odias, porque está en todos lados, y también lo está el rap, el blues y cualquier tipo de música que te guste o que odies. Tampoco importan los tipos, ya que uno es todo y todo es uno. Es tan solo cuestión de encontrar las conexiones y dejarlas ser, y doblarlas, y romperlas, olvidarlas... Es cuestión de dejarte ser, y dejarte caer en el olvido. Dejarte ir y exonerarte de todas tus ideas, y compartir las tuyas y las de ellos.

Nuestras mentes son finitas e infinitas. La dualidad reina; es más, la multiplicidad lo hace. Hay muchos “tús” como quieras, nada te definirá y todo lo hará. La vida y la muerte son nada, son parte de la existencia e inexistencia, y del millón de cosas que pueda estar en medio. Convencer tu mente o hacer que tu mente te convenza de lo que quieras. Moldear la percepción en la forma que quieras; entrar en las puertas o quedar en el umbral son todas posibilidades. Y ni siquiera es una decisión que debas tomar, no importa, no realmente… no es sobre dar o tomar. Nunca lo fue.

Ahora estoy en la calle nuevamente. Todo es tan sereno y verdadero. El decaimiento de la noche se comienza a crear, y la conciencia del día se hace paso. Pero no importa, porque la luz del día también puede ser el sonido de la lluvia. También puede ser el zumbido de una abeja o el canto de un ruiseñor. Y los autos de acero frío y severo se pueden convertir en vergüenza, en desgracia y en grandeza. No importa cuándo, o dónde, una vez que la provocación esté en movimiento. Ayuda a la mente a través de las muchas puertas de la conciencia; guíala al decaimiento, como la noche y como el canto del ruiseñor. Eres nada, eres dos, eres todo, eres finito e infinito, y pronto dejarás de existir… como yo; Como la eternidad está atascada en un momento de silencio, de resilencia, sentada junto a una cerca blanca. Todas las caras ausentes, toda la mentalidad se diluye.

THE BED

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 20:26:00 +0000

(short story)

Every day was extremely hard to get out of bed. Waking up wasn't a problem, maybe falling asleep was, but not waking up.

Every day, school or even work was set aside, in order to spend just a few more minutes lying there, inside the warm sheets and blankets, inside that extremely comfortable bed.

The bed was really beautiful; it was an antique that her parents got for her when she was a child. The header was made of thin sticks of iron, curved to give beautiful shapes. At the end of the sticks, always a flower, although some of them looked more like some kind of talisman. And in the middle, a faun; rather chubby looking fellow, nude as it would be in nature, child looking creature. Always the faun would look down, right to the head of whoever is sleeping in the bed, and her grandma always told her that the faun was her guardian angel; taking care of her while she slept.

And as I said before, sleeping in that bed was the best thing in the world, the most comfortable place ever.

Every morning, in her school years, her mom would wake her up for her to go to school. And every morning it was hell to have to go out of bed, especially when it was to go to school. Sometimes even preceded by the most inventive excuses; excuses that her mom wouldn't believe for a second. Her mind was like a Pandora's box, and when needed, the most wonderful stories would come to help.

When she grew older, she moved away, to live by herself, but she took her beautiful bed with her. Every night she would go to bed, with some book, and lay her head on the header, right where the faun is, the faun helping as support.

She always had a notebook on her night stand, and usually would write for hours, the most bizarre stories before actually falling asleep.

Sometimes, even asleep, those incredible stories would enter her thoughts and become dreams, sad maybe nightmares.

When she was a university student, she would take her texts to bed, and read until late all the subjects she was taking. But never ever she could get out of bed early in the morning, and never ever without spending some awake time in her bed. This started to affect her academic work, since she was missing the morning classes all the time. And it became quite a problem for her, but she couldn't figure out what was wrong. She just couldn't get out of bed. Once, she even spent a whole day in bed. She wasn't sick at all, nor depressed, as some people might think, she was just enjoying her bed.

But at some point, all the stories she had on her mind all the time went darker, and scarier. And the sweet dreams she once had started to become all nightmares. She was OK by it though, as she thought it was a great resource for her writing. And for some time, IT WAS OK. But then, all the nightmares started to follow her in her conscious state, awake.

Once, in the middle of the night, she woke up, immerse in cold swept. She couldn't remember what was happening on her dream, but apparently it wasn't nice. When she tried to reach the light switch she noticed she couldn't move. She was paralyzed; and she could feel that there was someone, or something looking at her, from the side of her bed. This lasted a few seconds probably, but it felt like an eternity. She was too scared to close her eyes, she was too scared to even breath. She felt even mentally paralyzed. With great effort she started praying, even when she couldn't even remember her prayers, she did the best she could. After a few minutes it all vanished, that moment, that tension, the atmosphere, everything, and it all went back to normal. She couldn't sleep for the rest of the night though.

All this time spent in bed, little by little grew bigger. What was once just a few minutes were now hours. And as she lived alone, nobody really noticed.

Sometimes she would stay the whole day in bed, only getting out to get some food or go to the bathroom. She would write insanely, or watch things on her computer, this went on for hours!

She had that awful dream from time to time, and the longer she spent in her bed, the more often she would have that dream.

Now the presence by her bed was gaining some form or shape, but it was still a blur. And she noticed once that as she exhaled, the presence would inhale, and when she inhaled the presence would exhale.

Everything was OK when the morning came. And all the crazy thoughts would vanish. She was convinced she was having some sort of hallucinations, and so she sought help.

All kinds of pills sat still on her night table. A glass of water half drank, gathering the thin dust suspended in the night. She tried for a few months with the pills, but everything was getting worse. She told her doctor, and he suggested some more aggressive treatment. She was committed, willingly, as she was now desperate. All this weird thinking was separating her from reality, and it was more than she could take.

She was there, at the clinic, for a whole six months. But all the time she was there, she was rather ok. She did had the occasional night terrors, but not as often, and the hallucinations were going away. When she was discharged, her doctor was convinced she would be ok. But he was terribly mistaken.

On the first week she went back home, back to sleeping in her so missed bed, the night terrors were back, and this time the escalation was tremendous. After one night of the most horrible, paralyzing fear, she called her doctor, who was really surprised with her call. And as she insisted, and sounded extremely exited, she went in for a consultation. She told the doctor what had happened, but as any doctor would think, the assumption was that she was scared of coming back, and so her mind was tricking her. "Many patients have these type of feelings when they go back home, but you shouldn't worry, it will take some time but you will get used to being at home again. But let's do this, I want you to take these before going to bed, it will help you sleep."

She would now sleep much more than needed. And she appeared to be even dead when she slept. Strong medicine the doctor gave her. The rest of the day was normal.

"Come back next week and we'll see how you are adjusting by then ok?"

And with the promise of returning by that time she went home. She was scared, but the doctor had given her the confidence she needed. That was the last time the doctor ever saw her, "next week" never happened. She never went back. She never got out of bed after that one week of heavy sleeping.

The last time she had that terrible nightmare, she managed to open her eyes. The figure by her bed was clear now, it was the faun, who had taken all her life and made it his own. Every night he would watch her, helping her at the beginning. Loving her, enjoying her company every moment, even when she wasn't awake. Every night the faun would guard her dreams, and make the bad ones go away. His love for her was immense, so much that it became envy, jealousy. He started ignoring her dreams, and the bad ones started to kick in. Until one day he discovered that by her nightmares, he could get a piece of her mind or soul for himself. He could make it his own. He grew bitter every time, and evil. He took her life away from her bit by bit, and when she noticed something was wrong, as usual, it was too late.

The last time she opened her eyes, the faun was real, and looking at her as usual, but from a real flesh and blood body. And now there was a grin look on his face. His loving being was forever gone.

The last time she opened her eyes, as she saw the faun, she started to fade. And the figure in the bed was now a little girl, with a sad face, looking to the side of the bed.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 05:16:00 +0000

16 junio 2012

Hoy me yergo ante la multitud
tratando de ocultar mi rostro
con la desnudez propia del alma
que llora y grita en el silencio
de la austera noche

Hoy me abruma la existencia
abominable y cautivante del deseo
y la prepleja inocencia
de mi una vez niña
se torna desasosiego y desesperación

el terror se apodera de mi mente
cuando el loco interior
muestra sus tenebrosos dientes
soy su presa y su maestra
pero aún me aterra

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 14:42:00 +0000

Las voces del aura me llaman
me invitan a su lugar
dulce brisa, comienza a mover
mi alma hacia donde están
pero ella se aferra con fuerza
a mi presente carnal
y mi conciencia, siniestra
no la quiere ayudar
Lucha mi alma serena
lucha por su lugar
que voy a apagar mi razón
y así poder olvidar.
Vuelven los ríos de vida
vuelve mi sangre a correr
al regreso de mi alma perdida
al olvido de mi ser.
Toman los vientos mi cuerpo
jubileo del cosmos vendrá
se tornan mis brazos la alas
de algún extraño ser
y baten la densa materia
y tuercen mi parecer.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 14:39:00 +0000

Vivo, por primera vez vivo
vuelo, respiro el aire puro
que Éolo envía para que pueda
desplegar mis torpes alas.
En los momentos más cercanos a la muerte
mi alma se aferra con fervor a mis entrañas
y no osa partir
Como Ícaro, me balanceo torpemente
pero mis alas no son de cera
están adheridas a mi,
son parte de mi
son el porqué respiro.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 16:00:00 +0000

I am outside of what you may consider life
I am here, I am breathing, I am next to you
you can see me, feel me and touch me.
I can see you, feel you and touch you,
but I am still not here.
I am beyond control, and beyond boundaries
I'm far off of what's expected.
I am agonizing with every breath.
I am soaring.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 15:57:00 +0000

My mind leaves, and travels
and flows with the world
and I am soon elsewhere
in a place of nature
in my mother's bossom
in my friend's memory
in my dog's eyes
in the grass and the flowers
and everywhere I want to be

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 15:56:00 +0000

All the amazing things
you were once able to do
are gone forever
are stuck wherever was sent
out of your conciousness
out of relation with yourself
All the amazing things
you once were able to forget
are now forever in your mind.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Death is always in my mind

the constant friend and alienator

choking on my throat

pressing on my lounges

But yet distant, behind a veil

the only truth, yet unknown

the flesh that gets rotten

the fetid fumes that eventually fade

....

It is the most extreme sadness

tears my viscera as it goes through my mind

I wish I could happily enjoy drunkenness

but life gets in, reality hits the soul

and not even the amber nectar washes it away

and so is death again, as always, most aware.

....

A great part of my self died today

as I go through life

all sort of pieces have fallen from me

some I lost along the way

but most remained attached to me, dead.

A constant reminder

weight that I have to carry always

wight that's almost to heavy for me to take

but even if more is added

I can bare.

On the verge of falling down to the ground

on my weakened knees

and succumbing to my own horrid dead weight

and if I could see myself from some distance

with all my dead parts on me

I'd probably see myself dragging these parts

but trying, desperately trying

to appear OK to the inquisitive eyes

and I would cover my nudity

even when it is all that remains

....

And poetry is my saviour

and the breath I cannot grasp myself

it is the most sincere reality

and it is also the most terrible pain

and it is also mine

it's mine to take.

and it also fades...

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Thu, 03 May 2012 18:24:00 +0000

All the nights perrish,
and they all remain
in my own awareness of the day

Hoping to see friends that never were
to talk to them and see how they are
and how they were

I wished for something I still don't know
For something beyond thought
and the memory of the wish remains,
but not the wish itself

The unforgiving, all mighty truth hit me
it hit me hard in the face,
but a strike of reality, other than lies, is best

Hard as it may be, and as much as I want out
I should for some time stay
and try harder to be, and keep breathing, and better not forget

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 23:47:00 +0000

One hundred new moons in the sky
await for me, while the horizon crashes
and the sun sits still at dawn

Hearing the call of nature
I will set myself to fly

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 01:25:00 +0000

Moon darkens the sky
no bumblebee flies
sing the sea to my lies
birds compulsivly cry
wind glitters the grass
green, yellow and blind.

Sing the sea to the wind
that cries, compulsively, cries
shines water in creek
dies creek in the ground

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 01:23:00 +0000

Hush the frogs that sing in the fields

as their sing is cry and their cry is fear

Hush them all as they cry for thee

as they cry for us, as they cry for me.

Dry the dew that caress the grass

with that softened touch which once was mine

Dry the tears that the frogs brought back

as it adds dead weight onto my back

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 21:52:00 +0000

A weekend of sorrow

A weekend of expectation

A weekend to remain in the dark

A weekend to turn

a weekend to metamorphosise

Waste your intellect

and loose yourself in perception

and see if you can stop

once the weekend's dead

Turn, turn, turn

into the arms of perception

Turn, turn, turn

into the arms of perception

waste your way

fall into alienation

Fade, fade, break

fall into the void

fall to your back

disappear your lack

of estimation

Blind yourself

take your common eyes off

and use the ones fear lends

Get away from life

if you don't live it to the fullest

Endure.

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Empty is when I'm down

my heart, my mind

My soul wonders around

and I am stuck

with the pain of watching

with the sorrow of a widow

cause my married self has departured

and I am stuck

I am paralized

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 11:18:00 +0000

Secretive secrets

remain hidden to me

but I don't even want

to find out about them

I don't care

I posses my own

secretive secrets

that I probably

won't ever share

And the pile will grow

and grow, and grow

until they crumble

on my head

on my mind

on my self

Or they will blow up

like a swollen balloon

splattering everything

and they'll be

splattered secrets

noreply@blogger.com (Marce) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 20:48:00 +0000

10 am is the hour of my death

I will perrish, slowly, like the wind

blowing the thinest sand away

I will disappear for ever

Another thorn will be stuck in me

another sigh will escape from me

another me will die

I am not even person

I am not even I

So my lungs won't fill with air

and my eyes will shed no tears

and my heart won't beat

and my hand won't write

because I don't exist

I've been dead for a long time

10 am is the hour of my death

10 am is the hour when reality breaks