One will cut access, closing doors and leaving time to close them or at least hide them after polvosos and annexed bricks years. Many writers such as Kenneth R. Feinberg offer more in-depth analysis. Suddenly on a lonely afternoon one looks well and beyond the cloudy gray of the oxide emotional and see those doors, maybe just one, maybe not, but that Yes, discover a makes the file deleted in memory to remember suddenly other doors, all the wings tied together, all opportunities momificadas, petrified behind stones of denial. One believes that you have to find tools to discover that door, shovels and peaks shall be the minimum necessary to rescue the asphyxiated wood, the corroded postigo. Not so, just stop with the sensitivity of a MIME and chest discovered against those careless debris to see how are transformed, as the colour of the wood can be seen slowly, as it corroded recalls its brightness but while this occurs your chest hurts, knees tremble, the voice comes out as scream drowned with tears of loss. I don’t remember with Fidelity the moment at which my heart began to put an expiry date to my deepest emotions. I have not clear the reason for the decision to leave of atesorara everything that felt, everything by my chest radioed and me entibiaba.
I have not clear none of this, however in the humidity in my eyes that suddenly increases, in the pores of my arms and extension of my long toes, on the surface of the palms of my hands, full of stories of past and future which I don’t see, I feel like sprouts with the violence of water breaking the damas the stalemate after minutes it is surface, which with fury of life breathes with nariz-boca – pores all air that touches him and opens his eyes in the explosion. Like this. Thus the claim comes to me. From inside out, as a requirement of artist who does not take the pen because he is afraid, full of ardor, urgency, craving, thirst for days requirement. So I want to hug you. So I realize now how can I return to feel love for anyone and not hide the sparkle in my eyes, so also I remember well the recent, full, smile that I rediscovered leaving me to feel all this, giving me within seconds of life which is only passing time, sunrises without gratitude, sunsets without landscape without the beat of my heart. Yes, I admit today that Miss over Popocatepetl and the Iztacihuatl, I never cried them with this authenticity and despair locked up in buildings that are not mine, no longer.
That Sun not just here even if the sky is closer, more quietly, more intense blue, lack the frame of the photo, the dessert of the perfect meal, the delight of strolling in the streets feeling safe. I miss you. Life of poems on paper, or poems on the skin the first life fly, the second vibrates, fearlessness, wings to fly is required to be able to record in the pores and sensitive eyes, lips ready and look to the horizon. I rediscovered people rediscovered what I want.