The snow melts really fast on this Febuary, 3rd. I just wait, patienly, for it to vanish bringging a revelation with its new liquidness. Something, anything, to make me get-up and carry on. procrastination. Seems to be the constant state of mind and living this week.
Our voices, your laugh, how it feels to touch your skin, I know you like it and that makes me love it. I can't wait. I need you here. I need you with me.
I know it is not selfishness... I remember the first tme you left. The sadness was so deep that it took a couple of days to get back to the surface again. My brother was around, I wasn't alone, today I am.
The second time you left, the second time... we knew you had to, it was almost as completing a duty. We knew you had to take that plane, get back to your normal life, get a job...
The thrid time you left, it was so cold... I wanted to kiss you some more, but we were both going to be late. I went to my exam, you went back to New York, again. I remember your eyes looking away, I remember how you moved, trembling slightly, silent. You were leaving me for a thrid time. I always am the one who leaves. Now it is you and your soft energy. I know you are still around, and that you'll always be in my heart, but its hard to carry on when I had you so physical, so mine. During those three times, I had you only for me. I feel as if I lost something unique.
I know, I know this give us room to plan and to do... I know I will visit you soon and that you will come back, to leave me, for a fourth time.
azile.
x
ps: its may not febuary now... but azile wants to publish it. its time. like a revelation.
there was a fourth visit... yes, there was a fourth one.
Tuesday 3 February 2009
Monday 2 February 2009
Extremes.
My life runs on two extremes. I always has. It always will.
Two ends of the world, two opposite options, two contrasting feelings, two delicious choices.
I am trapped in a snow storm, it doesn't usually snow this much in England, today London is covered by a couple of inches of snow. I hope tomorrow it is aswell. I like this, it feels new, it makes me aware of where I am and what to do. I know I will soon get bored of the white view from the window.
The other half of my heart, someone I care a lot about, is in an airplane flying to New York, so free my free boy. At least, that's what I like to think. I like to think that he is wherever he wants to be, but the truth is that I wish he was trapped in the snow strom with me.
I was thinking today about how technologic our relationship is, but it is not. Long distance relationships are not a 21st. century invention, they are as old as the times when soldiers left home to a battle in a far away land.
I'll keep him safe in my heart.
...
The rythm of my life will not change for today, it'll be like two stremes running on extremes. regardless of where I go or where I'll be.
Two ends of the world, two opposite options, two contrasting feelings, two delicious choices.
I am trapped in a snow storm, it doesn't usually snow this much in England, today London is covered by a couple of inches of snow. I hope tomorrow it is aswell. I like this, it feels new, it makes me aware of where I am and what to do. I know I will soon get bored of the white view from the window.
The other half of my heart, someone I care a lot about, is in an airplane flying to New York, so free my free boy. At least, that's what I like to think. I like to think that he is wherever he wants to be, but the truth is that I wish he was trapped in the snow strom with me.
I was thinking today about how technologic our relationship is, but it is not. Long distance relationships are not a 21st. century invention, they are as old as the times when soldiers left home to a battle in a far away land.
I'll keep him safe in my heart.
...
The rythm of my life will not change for today, it'll be like two stremes running on extremes. regardless of where I go or where I'll be.
A way to express
Let me tell you something about myself...
There was a time, when I knew a single world, a single language, a single family. Then my mother came along and told me stories of what and who I really was. She told me I had a father, up till that date, I have had a grandmother, an aunt and a brother. My mother was a woman in a picture and that day, she became real, she arrived from a far away land and filled up my head with tales and stories about another world, a colder world, a sad world. A world that had suffered a war. She spoke me in another language sometimes... and my up till then loving aunt began calling me 'the Russian one'. From that moment on, I think I was around 6 or 7 years old, I've been curios about it but most importantly, I became aware that there are other worlds.
Let me tell you about the present. I'm in England at the moment, surprisingly discovering another language. Trying to get back to my roots in this brand new laguage.
The tales my mother told me were about a man with an amazing mind. A man so smart, so claver, so intelligent... that could not coap with real life. He could not affort diappers, or food, or a room. He could just read and wirte, and draw and create, and love, deep inside he loved. But he was not made for real life. This man is my father, from whom I have a lot. I fight with that, everyday. I try to stay here, I try to stay real, reality. Everydayness....
That's what I do in England, I become real, but I swear to you that deep in side I am a writter too.
I grew up in a different world, a world that is called the thrid world here in England. Ecuador, South America, Latin America, The Andean region. Forgotten, beautiful, potentially powerful, such a soul-making character-shaping place.
I thought (I still think so, a litle bit) that I am never going to be the same one I was when I lived in between the Ecuadorian powerfully, lively, tall green grass... I just hope to be the same writter one day, and put my ideas acros again.
I need to. For myself. For my father.
azile
x
There was a time, when I knew a single world, a single language, a single family. Then my mother came along and told me stories of what and who I really was. She told me I had a father, up till that date, I have had a grandmother, an aunt and a brother. My mother was a woman in a picture and that day, she became real, she arrived from a far away land and filled up my head with tales and stories about another world, a colder world, a sad world. A world that had suffered a war. She spoke me in another language sometimes... and my up till then loving aunt began calling me 'the Russian one'. From that moment on, I think I was around 6 or 7 years old, I've been curios about it but most importantly, I became aware that there are other worlds.
Let me tell you about the present. I'm in England at the moment, surprisingly discovering another language. Trying to get back to my roots in this brand new laguage.
The tales my mother told me were about a man with an amazing mind. A man so smart, so claver, so intelligent... that could not coap with real life. He could not affort diappers, or food, or a room. He could just read and wirte, and draw and create, and love, deep inside he loved. But he was not made for real life. This man is my father, from whom I have a lot. I fight with that, everyday. I try to stay here, I try to stay real, reality. Everydayness....
That's what I do in England, I become real, but I swear to you that deep in side I am a writter too.
I grew up in a different world, a world that is called the thrid world here in England. Ecuador, South America, Latin America, The Andean region. Forgotten, beautiful, potentially powerful, such a soul-making character-shaping place.
I thought (I still think so, a litle bit) that I am never going to be the same one I was when I lived in between the Ecuadorian powerfully, lively, tall green grass... I just hope to be the same writter one day, and put my ideas acros again.
I need to. For myself. For my father.
azile
x
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