It's hard to be human (when there's a lizard in your head)
von Lucía Wolff Ruiz
In this infinite prelude to oblibion called life ~
Most of the things that move us are wrong. Our heads // slaves to ancient patterns.
Our collective mind // a broken louvre.
In it, we do not have a face.
We suddenly see it
A force we shan’t ignore. (Mother! I am thinking of it now. But now it’s too late.)
If I can’t eat // then I can’t sleep and if I can’t sleep // then I can’t think and if I can’t
I can’t live.
All night I think of my home. Of the rain on the roofs and of the interminable roads that are always straight and die in the middle.
I've said it before, and I will say it again:
◇ It's hard to be a woman when there's a reptile in your head.
◇ Someone is returning my letters.
◇ It's funny 'cause I had no sense of living without pain.
◇ When you have a secret, others can sense it. People sit a little closer.
Fear is of no use to me now.
In this house there are things. My grandmother lived in this house when my mother lived in her.
And sleep, you say?
I shall sleep when I am dead!
He had a horrible grey tone, as people do when they are sick. You can’t have it any way you want it. To
live a life completely devoid of responsibility. It’s something that I can’t do.
But this land somehow fulfills that fantasy // It’s to sit in a dimly lit train, everyone waring their winger coats and carrying their suitcases. It’s silent, it’s a silent country, it’s a big country where I could simply disappear and nobody would know where I am. I could just be engulfed by the darkness and the silence and the cold, living my most delicious and fantastic life, away from the eyes of everyone. It’s a country that I could learn to love, a country that bites, a country of unlimited freedom and anonymity, a country that speaks a language that I yet! don’t understand.
And when I said that I loved you I meant that I'd love you forever.
Stranger in a strange land: Your are a friend made anemy. I like the way you’re stopping to take look. Not everyone stops to look these days. Step in or stay away! But don’t stand there in the doorway // And then cam the day when I could say, yes, I am happy with what I do and it is significant to me. You
know? Everyone can tell that you’ve walked along the long paths of life.
You were as alone as could be, but didn’t feel sad. (Old man knows when old man dies).
You see? Life is //
The promise of the future is modernisation.
You fish in open water, ready to be wounded in whatever you reel in.
There is much arrogance in youth, and some pain in being old. A nationalistic nation that dreams of escaping is what I'm thinking of. Can you make a mistake and miss your fate?
The farther you walk
In the wrong shoes
the more wounds you will have to heal.
They say that the poet makes use of intuition, that rare yet superior form of intelligence. But I don’t have the wit nor the words to write the poety I’d like to write!
When everything is about to be destroyed,
is a poetic one.
Language weighs on me like a heavy
co | at. But I have a right to love what’s beautiful. Of all of life’s pleasures, solitude was
the most enjoyable and unforgiving.
He who parts is the one who asks questions.
Leave! Leave, and return full of space and time.
I hate these stones. I hate these stonesas much as I love them. It's clear to me that you know nothing about life, because you've never spoken to a stone. Someone take them away! They used to be birds!
Radio: They say that the manhattan cocktail was first mixed by Dr. Iain Marshall in the early 1880’s for a party by Lady Randolph Churchill, the mother of Winston Churchill. The supposed explanation behind the name of the drink is because this party was held in the Manhattan Club in New York. Later on, this theory was pronounced as a myth because, during that time, Lady Randolph Churchill was pregnant and was in England -definitely not partying in New York.
"Do you love me?"-A gendered thriller. The advert read.
We listen to stories. We watch plays of people
we could be, will be, were, and we are moved.
I am afraid of technology leaving me behind. They say that we can hear colours in Kandinsky. (White is silent)
I GIVE YOU MY EYES, patreon of the blind.
What is the meaning of pain?
Pain is in the eyes that stray.
Pain in itself has no meaning. Pain is a message.
The scars I knew were something with a history.
The scars I used to carry were just a pleasure to me.
But these things on me now, I don't know. They are strangers even to themselves