If anyone can actually read this, four stars for you.
***
Es importante ver la verdad
pero cuando todo lo que vemos es un reflexión
nos perdemos a veces
puedo imaginarme lo que corre entre ti
pero nunca lo he visto
porque eres un espejo
Vale más que me muestres a mí mismo
porque tu y yo
somos reflexiones
y nada más
Eres el sol
y mis ojos no se adaptarán a ti
Agarro la luz
y allí en mis manos
baila un reflexión
y nada más
***
Yo te daría mis brazos,
si los usaras para rechazar a tus demonios.
Yo te daría mis ojos,
si los usaras para mirar la lluvia.
Yo te daría mis manos,
si las usaras para para escribir una canción que es diez millas de largo.
Yo te daría mi voz,
si la usaras para cantar en el volumen más alto.
Yo te daría estas cosas,
pero tu serías yo.
***
Monday, November 20, 2006
Some story
Harold could see his breath, but he didn't like the faces it made. All around him the people hustled by, smirking and huffing out their own little pieces of themselves, expressing mere ambivalence to the life around them. Ahead a group had clotted around an old brown bus stop, an entire thrombus of indifference. These structures struck up confusion in Harold; as he had always thought that anywhere a bus stopped could be a bus stop. The clot all seemed to exhale in unison then, as if challenging him, creating a large oblong cloud. Harold watched as the people cloud floated away until it was cut apart by the cold sun, all the while thinking the words one less. One less breath for you. Another face rose from his own mouth, this one a theatre mask.
"Enough of that," he muttered, causing a woman carrying a child to his right to give him a protective glance. She looked much too young to be a mother. The lines of her face gave her about twenty years, while the child's lack of them gave her about five.
A handsome old voice spoke to Harold's left, startling him and causing him to look even stranger than the stranger he knew he was.
"Cold enough for ya?" it said. These lines were much more worn, the dirt left after a crowd has walked the path too many times to count. Metal winked from the chest, and more from the waist. Lines, all lines, Harold thought, disregarding the useless remark with impatience. All oblivious lines.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," the voice tried again. It seemed trained for attention, for just this kind of thing. Harold saw a flash of blue appear in front of his feet and looked up.
"It's you, isn't it?" the lines asked out loud.
"No, it's not." Harold replied, fully aware that he was himself.
"You have to come with me. I'd give you the old expression, but I'm afraid there's only a hard way here." the lines persisted, dangerously. Finger lines were spreading out toward Harold's arm.
He sighed out another face (a clown) and looked past the blue lines to different vibrant colors on the sidewalk.
YOUR SAVIOR IS HERE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS FIND HIM was written in tall crooked letters where people usually walk. Behind them an arrow pointed to a cross gracing the walkway, as if a religious symbol poorly-drawn with sidewalk chalk could force Harold to discover his salvation. All of it was mocking, really.
He spat, thought about the people cloud dissolving in the frozen light, and ran.
At first the street was empty except for the usual mountain of sound, and then he saw the monster machine bearing down on him.
TOO LATE. YOU'RE ALWAYS TOO LATE, his mind gnawed at him. One more likeness expired out and stood before him, hauntingly. This one was a portrait of himself, with the familiar lines drawn in the immediate and deep sorrow of the terminally ill.
The bus crashed through the foggy image and Harold's eyes grew wide as the apathetic life around the bus stop suddenly gathered all of its attention onto him.
One less.
***
Five-year-old Katrina Metz stood mesmerized by the bustling scene around her. Her bright blue eyes had stayed fixated on the strange man with the police officer throughout the entire altercation. Something had convinced strange man to try an escape into the street, and just before her mother's soft slow hand had moved with unusual quickness into Katrina's field of vision; she had seen his face. He appeared as though the Devil and God were raging inside of him, one of which commanding the upper hand. For years she would remember the most frightening part of that face; that she couldn't tell which.
And then there was the sound. The sound of rapid hope loss. The sound of therapy.
Strange man now lay sprawled ten feet away from the point of impact on the sidewalk and noise, crumpled face down on some words written in bright chalk. There was too much blood to read them.
***
"Enough of that," he muttered, causing a woman carrying a child to his right to give him a protective glance. She looked much too young to be a mother. The lines of her face gave her about twenty years, while the child's lack of them gave her about five.
A handsome old voice spoke to Harold's left, startling him and causing him to look even stranger than the stranger he knew he was.
"Cold enough for ya?" it said. These lines were much more worn, the dirt left after a crowd has walked the path too many times to count. Metal winked from the chest, and more from the waist. Lines, all lines, Harold thought, disregarding the useless remark with impatience. All oblivious lines.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," the voice tried again. It seemed trained for attention, for just this kind of thing. Harold saw a flash of blue appear in front of his feet and looked up.
"It's you, isn't it?" the lines asked out loud.
"No, it's not." Harold replied, fully aware that he was himself.
"You have to come with me. I'd give you the old expression, but I'm afraid there's only a hard way here." the lines persisted, dangerously. Finger lines were spreading out toward Harold's arm.
He sighed out another face (a clown) and looked past the blue lines to different vibrant colors on the sidewalk.
YOUR SAVIOR IS HERE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS FIND HIM was written in tall crooked letters where people usually walk. Behind them an arrow pointed to a cross gracing the walkway, as if a religious symbol poorly-drawn with sidewalk chalk could force Harold to discover his salvation. All of it was mocking, really.
He spat, thought about the people cloud dissolving in the frozen light, and ran.
At first the street was empty except for the usual mountain of sound, and then he saw the monster machine bearing down on him.
TOO LATE. YOU'RE ALWAYS TOO LATE, his mind gnawed at him. One more likeness expired out and stood before him, hauntingly. This one was a portrait of himself, with the familiar lines drawn in the immediate and deep sorrow of the terminally ill.
The bus crashed through the foggy image and Harold's eyes grew wide as the apathetic life around the bus stop suddenly gathered all of its attention onto him.
One less.
***
Five-year-old Katrina Metz stood mesmerized by the bustling scene around her. Her bright blue eyes had stayed fixated on the strange man with the police officer throughout the entire altercation. Something had convinced strange man to try an escape into the street, and just before her mother's soft slow hand had moved with unusual quickness into Katrina's field of vision; she had seen his face. He appeared as though the Devil and God were raging inside of him, one of which commanding the upper hand. For years she would remember the most frightening part of that face; that she couldn't tell which.
And then there was the sound. The sound of rapid hope loss. The sound of therapy.
Strange man now lay sprawled ten feet away from the point of impact on the sidewalk and noise, crumpled face down on some words written in bright chalk. There was too much blood to read them.
***
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