I would love to be able to start this little post by declaring my undying love and affection to this trustworthy friend and dreadful enemy. However, I keep wondering if it is time that changes me or if I am to discover it doesn't actually do much to the metamorphosis taking hold of me as of late.
Oh yes, my tender flesh and young blood are changing their chemical compound at a speed I have never witnessed before. It is as if I could hear under my skin the molecules clashing and reforming and be forced to watch the very fibre that covers me expand and stretch and refold in a hurtful origami dance that seems to be going nowhere…
It may not be the first time that these changes occur. With time and age and mistakes I guess they must unfold upon anyone. Nevertheless, I have never felt them as strong and as completely out of control as these past few months.
What is there to be understood of this? Passing pages will eventually come back? Will the old be entirely replaced or be modified and kept? Will the dust gathered upon so many corners be swept away or just lay down again on other shapes?
Is the finding to be proved true... that people are merely walking equations, understood by few but mysterious to others, that love and friendship are but variables and that the melting of bodies just a coma between units and subunits… Is selfishness and doubting others to be the newly crowned queen of the reign over my future?
I don't even know where these words are taking me. It's still so blurry and dark…
"Camina la punta de mis dedos sobre tus hombros,
Sobre la piel dura, como la que cubre los libros,
Se me rompen las unas al tratar de abrirte,
Y se me queman los ojos al tratar de leerte…"
[to M., to Y., to S., to DD.]
