domingo, 18 de septiembre de 2011

Letter to the air...

I begin to miss you again. They all say that it's not possible that after so much time in which I have not seen you at least, much less to know of you, it could have slightly so called love. I do not know it. Suddenly I meet wrapped in memories, the few ones that I have, of brief instants that we share. I believe that two months were alone or more of our friendship. And there are not even full the hollows of these moments, more the few ones that I have me are sufficient to be surprised so much.
It is those who say that alone it is an obsession. Obsession of what? Of looking for yourself? If I have not even taken the inconvenience to look for yourself; of having yourself? If I never had you. You were never mine in any aspect and I never occupied a space in your head, according to all, because you were never thinking about me. Though it is said that you gave me, at some time, being completely intoxicated I, a kiss. Obsession of having yourself? If I have fulfilled my promise not to look for yourself and not to be a hindrance. Obsession, certainly, is a tenacious idea of the head. So there are only you. And you are not even what I was dreaming. Only you are a series of recollections. But, why do I rack brains whenever I dream you? Whenever your voice resounds in me, whenever I imagine you to smile and to meet. Or that you wrinkle the eyebrows in a gesture of small girl? Why I wish the better thing you and prefer suffering to wishing you badly, regardless the hurt that you me caused and that I you caused?
The reality is that I think that it's love. But as the others they know more it brings over of me; since they all know me better than I, since they all BELIEVE that they are better than I, for the alone fact of which I do not have an exact control of my feelings, since they all say that it is not a love. They all can question me with questions of things neither that nor I know, but they cannot feel what I feel. Because of it some time ago I buried my heart. Because of it.
Some time ago I wanted to arrange the things. Only to know that it happened. With the time I have understood that I will never have the truth and it hurts me very much, because of all the things that I will never know, this one is the only one that matters for me indeed. When I hid my heart far from me, solve only in a temporary way the question of not knowing anything of you. But only it is it: a temporary solution. The "onirísmo" that chases me day after day, complicating my existence with situations that do not compete with the royal life does that every instant is furthermore long still. Sad. But royal, at the end of accounts.
I need you. This is the reality. With you, in our ephemeral stage of friendship, I felt plenary session, since it was doing more than one decade that he it was not feeling with any woman. And always I said it. And as unattainable object of my love, you were too much; you transfigured yourself into something that goes beyond my madder dreams. And though now this hollow where my heart must be - metaphorically - - has been very nice, already I feel that this object wants to come untied. But I am afraid of that it does and discovers that the whole feeling follows intact that, they should say what they should say, it is a love. What will I do when the moment comes? Of that you will serve me, if I will never return to see you? ….

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