Sunday, 16 June 2013

The end

Back in 2009 I started sharing some thoughts in here.

It was a nice experience to be able to show you some of the stuff I had inside.

Now it´s time for a fresh start. A novel, maybe? A chance to try and do something in this world of darkness filled with words?

I am not sure of the future ahead, but I have to keep moving.

The shadows are still all over me, and I want to recover all my bohemian soul to try to move inside you.

Until next time,

Bohemian Shadow

Sunday, 9 June 2013

Viviendo en mi ausencia


Es complicado saber cómo ocurrió y eso probablemente duele más que el propio sentimiento que resulta de todo esto. No saber de dónde se extrajo el líquido de la desazón, dónde yace la misma raíz del problema y hacia donde nos lleva. Todas las interrogantes se despojan de la lógica de los momentos vividos a su lado y te dejan con ese vacío tan solitario y silencioso.

Es ese silencio lo que te empieza a quebrar por dentro cada día un poco más. El saber que la distancia provoca más satisfacción que el tacto, la predilección del aroma por encima del gusto. La perfección de decir adiós que se impone al antaño placer de dar la bienvenida en su seno.

Pocas cosas duelen más que la grieta que se abre entre dos tierras. Sientes que la sequía no cobija ningún espacio a la cordura ni a la esperanza. Y te vas abandonando poco a poco, tu reflejo en el espejo cada vez te parece más lejano.

No soy yo, eso no puede serlo.

Menguas con cada día que pasa sin su abrazo, el corazón se hace una piedra,condensando los sentimientos que te quedan. Inmóvil se coloca a un lado de tu cuerpo y no deja circular los pensamientos en tu interior.

Cicatrizas antes de ser herido, sangras sin pausa antes de que el metal penetre en tí...mueres antes de tiempo. Eres algo que nunca pensaste que pudieras ser. Todo lo que odiaste de tí se presenta en ese retrato triste.

Las canas, las arrugas ya no son fantasía. Los músculos pierden la tensión y se deprimen agarrados a los huesos para no caerse al fondo de la melancolía que todo lo cubre.

Finalmente yaces en el lecho como si no hubiera otra opción. Las sábanas son las cuerdas que se abrazan a tu cuello y te suspenden en el vacío del sueño que dudas que pueda hacerte olvidar todo este miedo en tu interior.

Quieres tocar fondo para impulsarte hacia arriba de esta ciénaga que te ahoga más y más pero parece que nunca llegarás al final de tu agonía.

¿Qué hacer, sumergirse más en el dolor, punzar aún más en toda esta muerte o intentar ver algo de luz al final de camino? Ambas están a la misma distancia siempre, en un equilibro diabólico que exaspera al intelecto. No quieres ese purgatorio sino uno u otros extremos.

Morir o vivir, ambas cosas tan lejanas en el tiempo y en el espacio.

Probablemente todo esto es mentira también, como este escrito. Como tú, que nunca das señales de vida.

Y como yo, que dudo si nunca existí de veras.


Saturday, 1 June 2013

Reflections of what it is, how it started and how it got to be


It is difficult to know why this all started when I wrote the first words on the virtual paper. In fact, it was always easier to do it this way instead on trying to manually ink my thoughts on the surface of a piece of paper. The morphology of my hands combined with my completely unorthodox way I learned to write slowed my thoughts down in a terribly frustrating way.

Anyhow I managed to fight out my own demons through the process of writing. At first I needed the anger or the extreme feeling of demotion or sadness to spill out my brain on the web, as if I was doing a sacrifice to a god morphed into the huge spider of my uncertain present and future.

Drowning myself into the depths of the substances would help see the muse but soon I discovered it was also tougher to keep her close to me. The observation and the satiated thirst for its existence was more than enough at first, but later the inspiration evaporated like the breath out of my throat in a winter dawn.

The feeling of need to write assaulted me soon after. I didn´t need anyone´s approval since I didn´t believe in anybody anymore. Losing your faith in life includes the lack of belief in people.

The only thing you end up believing is in the process of writing. Sometimes your ego injects a subtle thought of doubt in your brain, telling you that the reason for this is not your talent, your skill or your development: the only reason your writing has no breaks is because it´s broken for the very first moment you do it.

How can something end up broken if it´s already broken from its birth in the brain of the author?

I ended up taking the risk of creating some badly written ideas or simply some blunt concepts if it made my craft run smoother. By doing so, some good ideas and beautifully exposed concepts also surge from it all. No novel or story is perfect. There are parts that basically are dull, consciously or not. You cannot be high all the time.

The lows take you to the highs.

And my moods are like that, as a writer too.

Right now I am starting to like my bad parts too. Those ideas not well expressed, the lack of a more accurate vocabulary or a syntax that easilly can escape through my fingers. I do not fight it any more. I cherish the moment in which my frustration tries to come out and then it hides instantly after.I bored it out completely.

Now the ideas just go and come as a dog that you want to grab to take home but only comes if you are willing to play first. They say a dog is as tied to its owner as the owner is tied to his dog. Difficult to know who owns who at the moment. It is not relevant. We walk hand by hand with our fears, our mistakes and our talents.

It is all us, it is all part of us.

The writing is deep inside me and I have become a part of the process of writing too.

I am ready to accept its consequences, to not hold anything back and go further and further into the horizon with my soul on my hands and my blood filling up the ink reservoir in my brain.

Until the end.

Sunday, 19 May 2013

Lethean



Katatonia-Lethean

How long
Is the pattern going to speak for you
How far can your voice reach
Your song below the night
From my view
I can see you
Shudder where you are standing
In the vision
Cyan blue

Now
October
This time you won't be needing me

To run along the freeway
To weigh one's heart against the oncoming dark
You left me with the pills
We had plans but you couldn't make it
Through the trees
What took you so long
The high grass
What took you so long

Translate the fire
The venom's rush inside your heart
How long can winter
Colour your every word
And the skyline
Past the houses and the cities
Hyperopia
Carmine red

Now
This river
This time I will

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Encadenado a su Quimera


Le asaltó la fuerte sensación de que las palabras se abrían sus camisas y dejaban ver la voluptuosidad que emanaba de su seno. El trazo y forma de sus curvas se había adaptado al contorno de sus miembros, el rítmo entre un paso y otro rimaba con los latidos irregulares bajo su yugular. Por fín, de manera clara podía percatarse del aroma exótico que había imaginado cuando puso pié por vez primera en aquella tierra tan ajena en un principio a él.

La hipnótica cadencia y la elección caprichosa y no arbitraria de aquellos sonidos le habían visitado una tarde tras salir del trabajo. En realidad, el la había invocado...una vez abierto su cuerpo al sonido de aquellos labios que se entreabrían para crear aquellos fantasmas etéreos tan reales como inciertos no pudo resistirse a ellos.

Cual canto de sirena, lo dejó todo atrás y obedeció a las órdenes latentes en esa lengua que se deslizaba cálida entre la marea de sus más íntimos deseos.

Ella le esperaba con un racimo de palabras embriagadas de su pócima lunar esparcidas por toda su desnuda piel como un rastro de flores negras albergando un leve perfume a lilas y rosas. Aquellas bellos versos se abrieron ante él y compusieron una melodía suave e intensa, a las que penetró con toda su ansiedad vital. Nunca había escuchado tales notas compuestas de aquel modo, nunca había conocido musa que se hubiera equiparado a aquella sirena de cuerpo tan descaradamente hermoso.

Juntos se dejaron brotar más flores, bajo la sombra de aquella Luna que los había convocado a aquella reunión en aquellos prados llenos de ella que ahora serían el lecho donde yacer bajo el embrujo perpetuo del éxtasis.

Friday, 19 April 2013

En un día cualquiera de Abril

Le visitó la muerte un día cualquiera de Abril, a una hora en la que ningún invitado debería presentarse en el umbral de una casa. Pero así fue como aconteció y probablemente no lo podamos contar de un modo tan preciso como quisiéramos.

Había estado esperando desde hacía un tiempo, habitando el espacio ciego entre un parpadeo y el siguiente. Ni tan siquiera una intuición desarrollada habría sido capaz de detectar su presencia. La inercia y el dolor la habían invitado a acercarse y ahora era una tentación demasiado grave como para ser evitada.

Ella estaba sola, como casi nunca. El desencanto le había abandonado aquella mañana por fín, y se había deshecho del incómodo velo de la complacencia. Sentía por vez primera interés por sumergir su mano en el cálido fluido del tiempo en el que se encontraba.

Se acercó a la puerta y por fín se encontraron. Cara a cara con el más futuro de los pretéritos se hizo pequeña ante tamaña figura. La contempló y se olvidó de todo lo que había ocurrido con anterioridad.

Ahora todo era presente, podía sentir la forma del espacio penetrar en su piel. Empezó a introducir su oscura tinta bajo el pálpito de su cálida piel y a inundar cada esquina y cada rincón de su sometida alma.

En ella, la muerte se tornó más segura y paciente. Juntas dejaron aquella casa y recorrieron los cimientos de la naturaleza que los albergaba.

Cuenta la leyenda del lugar que aquella fue la primera vez que la muerte se olvidó de su labor cotidiana para dejar las riendas del tiempo a la vida.

Por un día, y en aquel remoto lugar del país los obituarios se convirtieron en piezas de un museo sin turistas.

En aquel día de Abril.

Saturday, 2 March 2013

Génesis



No sé cuánto tiempo durará todo esto.

El constante reflejo de las palabras sobre mi rostro, en un efecto de boomerang cuya curva golpea una y otra vez mis sienes, la fuerza del eco creciendo en magnitud como el tamaño de mi incongruencia en mis textos.

Los dedos dormidos seguido de los torpes movimientos de la lengua en la boca humedecida por el alcohol barato de la tienda de enfrente. Las noches se abren y mis pensamientos no tienen ningún fin ni principio.

Todo es caos, acción y pulsión. Como una serpiente en mi interior que repta, dilatando mi hedonismo y prolongando el ansia de captar lo que creo que no tengo y a lo que siempre persigo.

La inspiración se deshace entre mis ojos, se pierde ante ellos en la hoja de papel virtual cuyos bordes se van quemando, quebrando y carcomiendo con el paso de un tiempo que trae frutos marchitos y decadentes.

Sé que puedo llegar a tí, pero me tienes que tender la mano. Todo el tiempo estás postrada ante mí, te huelo, te comprendo y te anhelo. Ahora quiero que seamos uno, voz e idea, figura y sombra, la herida y su sangre unidas por el cordón de vida sin confines ni superficies.

El mapa del tiempo anuncia tormentas, tempestades y furia desencadenada. La aurora boreal tanto tiempo ansiada anuncia cambios.

Para tí y para mí.

Ahora.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Głęboko w bieli


I left my flat on the fourth floor. The smell of wasted dreams was still filling the whole space and it followed me while I went down the stairs of the building. At that time of the evening you could already enjoy the almost complete absence of people on the street.

Such a relief, at last.

That is what my dog could have felt at that moment. But in this walk I was alone. Penniless, stranded and somewhat depressed I tried to enjoy the sound of the footsteps into the snow. It was Sunday, the day in which few cars pass and people are too warm at home to throw those bags of salt on the asphalt.

The street was a frosted cake in which I started to cave in my own way into my solitude. Little did I know that I would fall sick for some weeks after such a walk.

I was looking for some sort of relief but I refused to see what was in front of me. You see, I never really was able to have any patience in life to fulfill some of the tasks I was supposed to accomplish. It is curious that I just talked about those bags of salt, since I very well could picture myself as one of them. I saw myself as a person that eases other people´s step into their tasks. My intentions were good, but the bag was found to be a pure rag. Holes appeared and the salt scattered on the whiteness of a lonely street on which no one will feel the need to lose his time on.

Sometimes I wondered if the bag could not be opened and all it did was just fall from the back of a public service van. Closed it had remained and it had rolled its way onto the metallic lips of a sewer. Such a romantic vision of myself I had while I continued my walk that Sunday evening.

The salt would solidify and the whiteness of its substance would acquire a different tone, sucking the dirt around it and becoming yellowish as the powder substance on a museum´s bones.

I had not enough money to buy some cheap wine. That of 7 zlotys that you need to drown into some other liquid so as to feel something similar to a sip of good alcohol. Would it still spark my blood in my veins?


I finally crossed the park on which I used to play with my dog. I was thinking of how comfortable people would be in their houses, reading a book while caressing their dogs. Mine would be enjoying a good dish prepared by my girl and I felt like coming back home and finally be able to stop doing cheap philosophy thoughts on a sunday evening.

And then I saw it. 

At first I thought it was an error, of course. I felt someone was looking at me from a parked car. The logic existed and though the day was freezing cold and it was late, somebody could actually be getting ready to use a car. Or also, it was also possible that someone didn´t have a house and was spending the evening in a car.


Why not?

And so I politely smiled to the person in the car without actually looking. My reaction was clumsy and ridiculous so I started to walk faster in the direction of my flat. Then I realised that the person in the car seemed to have reacted in a stupid way as well. Minutes later I thought I was rude for not having looked even. My paranoia started growing like the layers of snow on the road.


I felt as if the person was calling me from the distance even though I was too far from the car to be seen.

I couldn´t help myself from returning from the place in which the car was parked, right at the exit of the park. My mind was driving me insane already, sending possible portraits of the person at whom I had barely laid my eyes on. 


A man, brown haired. No glasses, shades of beard. Not Polish.

How could I possible know that if I hadn´t looked at the person? What if, after all, there was nobody at all in that car? How would I explain my girl or myself what was happening? 


A hooded man just passed close to me and it freaked me more than my thoughts. In this time of the year anybody can look scary because we cannot see our faces anymore. Layers and more layers of clothes cover our bodies and our shapes become diffuse, all black shadows moving silently on the neverending whiteness.

I started laughing at the fact that I was playing a stupid game that I myself had invented out of nowhere. There was probably no car, no mysterious man in it and surely I must still be dreaming in my bed and I still haven´t got up from my sleep.

With regained confidence and interest I arrived to the place where the car was supposed to be. I verified that the same car was there and slowly I got closer to it to check if there was somebody inside. In fact I could see a head resting on a window. I could only see long brown hair. I got closer to the head to check if the person was awake. The closer I got to the window the weirder the feeling was becoming. I was mesmerized by that person in the car and yet I still didn´t know who that was.

Finally I stared at that head, barely 5 centimeters from it. Still it didn´t move and I just couldn´t resist the temptation of seeing who that was. I knocked at the window and waited for that face to show.

Nothing moved

After a couple minutes I thought I must have been become crazy. It seemed to me that that wasn´t a head anymore. It was probably some toy left by a kid inside his parents´ car. Or maybe it was just a reflection from another car that together with some strange car furniture had twisted my imagination a little.

Laughing, I started running from the place. I got to the zebra crossing and I smiled at the fact that I would see the first car approaching in the whole evening.I had been out for an hour and I hadn´t seen anybody´s face yet. I waited for the car to get closer and I wondered if it would let me pass or if it would pass first.

The car started to slow down when it approached me and it finally stopped. I started crossing and I waved hello to the driver. While crossing I realised it was the same car on whose window I had stared for some minutes before. The driver was looking at me and smiling, waving the hand with the same intensity and motion as I was doing.

In shock I realized it was me in the car. The thought froze my whole body and I could barely feel my limbs. The terror regained control over me and I could only wait and observe the movements of my alter ego in the car. He continued smiling while my face was terrorized and I could hear the engine roar while the car crashed my body on the white road.

When I woke up, I thought I was dead. I had been hit by a car. On purpose, and by my own self. 

Two weeks of fever and flu followed that night and I still haven´t been able to leave the house since then. I wonder if it is the flu what is keeping me here or the horror of living the same experience again: the car and the mysterious figure inside that it turns out to be me.

Will it repeat itself?

I am so scared that I have stopped looking through the balcony window. I fear seeing that car parked there. And above all, I fear seeing myself laughing from the other side of the steering wheel of my life, calling me, telling me to get closer to it once more.



Sunday, 30 December 2012

Cicatrices


Me gustaría que vierais mis cicatrices.

Corren por mi cuerpo sin rumbo fijo, mirando hacia abajo, como si quisieran fundirse con mi alma, tocarla, quemarla. A su lado la sangre fluye por las venas iluminando cual luciérnaga el lento y arduo caminar de mis heridas.

Mi piel es un gran surco de incongruencias, toda miel y tela de esparto...luces y sombras...amargo recuerdo de vidas anteriores.

Todo dolor tiene su cicatriz marcando el paso consciente hacia una vida diferente, mutable en su absurdo designio.

Pero la cicatriz avanza, cada vez más profunda, cada vez más intensa. Ya no es carne sino espíritu. Ya no es piel, sino vida.

Mi vida son mis cicatrices, y mi alma es un mar con barcos cuyas anclas arañan el fondo con rabia y lentitud. Los mismos barcos cuyas redes ahogaron a mi sirena doliente...sus ojos me miran desde el fondo, angustiados...

Mis labios ya no rozarán los suyos en los amaneceres de nuestra locura. Ya no podremos gozar de nuestros pulsos sostenidos, nuestras manos temblorosas ya no encontrarán nuestros cálidos centros...su cuerpo ya no es suyo, pero sus cicatrices son las mías.

Cuando mi piel se haga infinita, entonces buscaré el olvido en sus miedos y nuestras cicatrices se fundirán allá donde no podrán ser encontradas.


...


Escribí este texto hace cinco años, cuando empecé a publicar en internet mis relatos, poemas y pensamientos. Han sido cinco años en los que tomado senderos cuyo final me era desconocido pero a pesar de todo los he tomado. Con menos miedos de los esperados, y con la suerte de tenerte ahí para leerlos. Espero que en los próximos cinco años lleguemos a tierras aún más oscuras y que disfrutemos, tú y yo de más conversaciones en torno a luces cada vez más tenues. 

Todo empieza con las cicatrices de un pasado y continúa con las líneas marcadas por un ayer que me lleva al presente y que probablemente me llevará a algún sitio mañana. Cuando no seamos nosotros y el aquí sea valdío.

Bohemian Shadow

Saturday, 29 December 2012

Áfram ríð, hjartað pumpar tárum

El año 2012 va llegando a su fín y mi vida suena así:



El grupo se llama Sólstafir, y la canción Fjara.