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.