Todo Esto Es Una Mierda, Estoy Enamorada De La Idea Del Amor, Mi Cerebro Solamente Se Siente Bien Si

“Al hombre que aún soy le gusta la mujer que tú eres…”

— José Saramago

La mayoría de las veces soy invisible para ti; pareciera que sólo me buscas cuando quieres sentirte bien contigo. No quieres ver que estoy de tu lado, que la vida en general es una guerra y que somos aliados...

Ya nada tengo yo que sea mío: Mi voz y mi silencio son ya tuyos.

Recinto (Fragmento), Carlos Pellicer (via untransitardeideas)

“Algún día serás lo suficientemente viejo para volver a leer cuentos de hadas.”

— C.S. Lewis (via sad-eyes-escribe)

deje de pelearse con su cuerpo porque la única persona que va a salir perdiendo es usted

Te haré un resumen; aquí se te ama, estés o no.

Me, and the Leprechaun and what happened in the clouds.

I met a Leprechaun at the rainbow’s end, he was sitting on his pot of gold, all dressed in a green, and golden blend, he looked so sad; not brave and bold. I snatched the gold from beneath his arse, I was sure he would scream and rave, I was dreaming of champaigne and cars, But he stopped me dead, with the sobs he made.  I sat beside him on the fluffy cloud, and I asked him what was troubling him, he wiped his tears, then spoke aloud, and the tale he told, was sad and grim. Mrs Leprechaun, had been gone for days, he had searched for her,and he feared the worst, it was not like her; she had settled ways, now he blamed her missing, on the Goblin’s curse. “ Come on “, says I, “ we’ll find your love, I’ll not  leave your side ‘til she’s safe back home “,  and we walked for miles on the clouds above, until the sun, no longer shone. He magic’d  up a jug of grog, it was hot as lava; it burned like hell, when from out of the swirling, misty fog, a booming voice, his name did yell. She knocked the hat from off his head, she tore gold buttons, from his shirt of green, she said she thought that he was dead, while all this time, he drank poteen*. I left them to their argument, and went off to find some place to sleep, I dreamed of gold that was heaven sent, but for that gold, I did not weep. * poteen: Irish moonshine.   Ambrose Harte    Scattered Thoughts  

Estoy un poco lastimado pero no estoy muerto. Me recostaré para sangrar un rato. Luego me levantaré a pelear de nuevo.

John Dryden