I once looked at the sky and discovered a breach
ever since I have claimed to the world that no God is up there.
ever since I have claimed to the world that no God is up there.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
You Are in a Tent
You a black ugly fruit fly stationed in the ceiling of the tent. Your senses are full of wonders on how to escape. Tranquility reigned moments ago until he 'the intruder' invaded the green space and between sobs screamed repetitively:
This lament broke the serenity of your senses.
Drama t
he Fruit Fly always wanted to avoid at all costs. This was the primary reason why she escaped the obsessive love of her mistress, the Wasp. Inside the tent she was safe and better yet she was able to be her again. Peace and solitude give her strength. Alone she could use her multiple eyes in any given form. Her bony legs acquired dimensional strength that make her stand firmly face-up towards the ceiling but most importantly, and what made her rejoice, were her two upper wings that shine like two polished crystals.
It was difficult to share the tent with him 'the invader'. Soon she was full of senses lamenting the situation around her. Being an insect was supposed to have the most insignificant events in life, but with the drama developing inside the tent; this was turning to be a true human-provoked havoc. She sense a wish of death. How easy was to anticipate the present with all her senses posited in one thing! He, on the other hand, was ahead of the game with knife on the right hand pointing it ready towards him. Nothing else was more obvious. He wanted to commit the great end. How much drama could unfold inside the tent--she thought demi disgusted, and curious to learn more about her own faith aimed her senses towards the future...
She suddenly remembered how she flew around the green space to inspect the scene of the crime. This protocol inspection allow her sense to construct an idealization of her own death. Only her antagonist sense could make her retract and return to her mistress. But perhaps was her heroic sense who install her the desire to remain there, so she can conclude her last mission. Her natural pre-destiny now was a set event not so far away. She was content.
His last moaning came right before he shut his eyes. Right after her moment of truth arrived. She turned off her senses and felt her steps towards the bloody lava. She sensed no regrets.
"Why my lord!" "Why...!"
This lament broke the serenity of your senses.
Drama t
he Fruit Fly always wanted to avoid at all costs. This was the primary reason why she escaped the obsessive love of her mistress, the Wasp. Inside the tent she was safe and better yet she was able to be her again. Peace and solitude give her strength. Alone she could use her multiple eyes in any given form. Her bony legs acquired dimensional strength that make her stand firmly face-up towards the ceiling but most importantly, and what made her rejoice, were her two upper wings that shine like two polished crystals.It was difficult to share the tent with him 'the invader'. Soon she was full of senses lamenting the situation around her. Being an insect was supposed to have the most insignificant events in life, but with the drama developing inside the tent; this was turning to be a true human-provoked havoc. She sense a wish of death. How easy was to anticipate the present with all her senses posited in one thing! He, on the other hand, was ahead of the game with knife on the right hand pointing it ready towards him. Nothing else was more obvious. He wanted to commit the great end. How much drama could unfold inside the tent--she thought demi disgusted, and curious to learn more about her own faith aimed her senses towards the future...
She suddenly remembered how she flew around the green space to inspect the scene of the crime. This protocol inspection allow her sense to construct an idealization of her own death. Only her antagonist sense could make her retract and return to her mistress. But perhaps was her heroic sense who install her the desire to remain there, so she can conclude her last mission. Her natural pre-destiny now was a set event not so far away. She was content.
His last moaning came right before he shut his eyes. Right after her moment of truth arrived. She turned off her senses and felt her steps towards the bloody lava. She sensed no regrets.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Dungy Bathroom, Your Eternal Place
Your eternal physical presence can be found inside my dungy bathroom... The rotten white soap still rests on the bath tube which stills conserve the moisture of the hot water we showered with; along the bath tube the soap original gray essence revives the time you were taking a bath. How sad it is to think that long time has passed since you left.
The water basin is clouded with all types of gels and other dispensable care utensils you brought along to your trip, like my memory of you, they are yet to be removed from the bathroom. Don’t worry I don’t expect no cleaning lady. How sad is to see the battery-power toothbrush abandoned, which you last used to brush your perfect teeth.
The floor is dusted, the stinted bathroom pad is filled with scattered dirt containing single remembrances of your cheveux friés, which upon being discovered I picked each one of them and posited them inside the pages my collection of Russian literature.
The squeezed toothpaste that you proclaimed yours while in Aix still awaits is termination; remember that is the Crest Total Tartar control you constantly used to bright your smile and deliverability imposed to me before kissing you. Thus is my dungy bathroom, an old chambre intact by time and filled with objects that pertain solely to me and I used to produce an atypical anguish avec memoires de toi. There are more objects of yours that I preserve. My distorted room has lived changes so thus speak, but contains valuable remembrances characterized by their distorted nature of out time together, from their respective abandonment in a particular place to where they were left last and to which now repose in solitude.
My graffiti-filled computer desk contains many of these valuable objects, par example the glass with all the three original cigarettes butts tu as fumé rest on the right side of my computer monitor; the ashes at the bottom of the glass have smutted the glass thus giving it a rare beauty, the smell characterization of cigarettes as a health hazard is gone. On the extremities of the right, rest the purple disposable camera with seven pictures taken while in New York City, your last pictures which I objectively refuse to develop until this day. On the top shelve, a clandestine black and white picture of the two during the unforgettable sangria party at the 16, rue des Tanneurs resides in the middle of some disregarded notes I took when I went to Denver in search of being. In the same shelve, there is the lasting impression of yours, an empty space your books left when I shammed had to send them back to you after my impulses defiled and ravished you.
So much time has passed and my dungy bathroom now it is a beautiful monument in the one of my rooms where I write and read. You started it all.
The water basin is clouded with all types of gels and other dispensable care utensils you brought along to your trip, like my memory of you, they are yet to be removed from the bathroom. Don’t worry I don’t expect no cleaning lady. How sad is to see the battery-power toothbrush abandoned, which you last used to brush your perfect teeth.
The floor is dusted, the stinted bathroom pad is filled with scattered dirt containing single remembrances of your cheveux friés, which upon being discovered I picked each one of them and posited them inside the pages my collection of Russian literature.
The squeezed toothpaste that you proclaimed yours while in Aix still awaits is termination; remember that is the Crest Total Tartar control you constantly used to bright your smile and deliverability imposed to me before kissing you. Thus is my dungy bathroom, an old chambre intact by time and filled with objects that pertain solely to me and I used to produce an atypical anguish avec memoires de toi. There are more objects of yours that I preserve. My distorted room has lived changes so thus speak, but contains valuable remembrances characterized by their distorted nature of out time together, from their respective abandonment in a particular place to where they were left last and to which now repose in solitude.
My graffiti-filled computer desk contains many of these valuable objects, par example the glass with all the three original cigarettes butts tu as fumé rest on the right side of my computer monitor; the ashes at the bottom of the glass have smutted the glass thus giving it a rare beauty, the smell characterization of cigarettes as a health hazard is gone. On the extremities of the right, rest the purple disposable camera with seven pictures taken while in New York City, your last pictures which I objectively refuse to develop until this day. On the top shelve, a clandestine black and white picture of the two during the unforgettable sangria party at the 16, rue des Tanneurs resides in the middle of some disregarded notes I took when I went to Denver in search of being. In the same shelve, there is the lasting impression of yours, an empty space your books left when I shammed had to send them back to you after my impulses defiled and ravished you.
So much time has passed and my dungy bathroom now it is a beautiful monument in the one of my rooms where I write and read. You started it all.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Second Vexation
Nah Sis... I'm on a different level that I don’t need to go through this again. For starters I'm not a quitter... I know that. Yeah, I once quit a bicycle race, my bus-boy job in a restaurant, and even quit on my son. I don’t give up easily. I do fucking know that, but this situation is vicious, it is so fucking vicious that it is hard to conceptualize it as other thing but vicious. Besides I'm not a rookie or a recent college graduate that needs so desperately an opportunity. It was not about been looked down, but it was about this fucking vicious receptiveness and reassurance drills that I had to go through everyday. It is sick my friend, it is so fucking sick that you have no idea, in sum it is viciousness at its very best. Sure it was good money, but it does NOT worth the trauma.
No manches! Yesterday at 5:30 PM, he (the guy who I no longer working with—thank God) wanted to talk to me for 15 minutes, he called but the fucking call last it more than 60 minutes, he talked and talked about his fucking anguish that interferes with his thought process, on top he added that he didn’t feel I was committed to this job; all these fucking feelings are for nothing because I don’t want nobody to feel for me this or that. I had done enough to prove myself that I care about my work. What else does he want me to do? He wants reassurance everyday which gets from me in plenty doses, but yesterday I reached a point that I could no longer reassurance him. He has these bad habits of telling you that things are going good, that he likes what he sees, and on and on he labels things I do as perfect, fantastic, excellent. But next day his bug is back and I have to repeat myself again and again.
Cockiness, over-confidence, go ahead and label me. Nah Sis, I’m on a different level, my resume can do the talk, and my former coworkers (people I have collaborated with) can speak of my resilience and execution. But let’s get the record straight, I’m not a quitter and neither myself and me never will be.
No manches! Yesterday at 5:30 PM, he (the guy who I no longer working with—thank God) wanted to talk to me for 15 minutes, he called but the fucking call last it more than 60 minutes, he talked and talked about his fucking anguish that interferes with his thought process, on top he added that he didn’t feel I was committed to this job; all these fucking feelings are for nothing because I don’t want nobody to feel for me this or that. I had done enough to prove myself that I care about my work. What else does he want me to do? He wants reassurance everyday which gets from me in plenty doses, but yesterday I reached a point that I could no longer reassurance him. He has these bad habits of telling you that things are going good, that he likes what he sees, and on and on he labels things I do as perfect, fantastic, excellent. But next day his bug is back and I have to repeat myself again and again.
Cockiness, over-confidence, go ahead and label me. Nah Sis, I’m on a different level, my resume can do the talk, and my former coworkers (people I have collaborated with) can speak of my resilience and execution. But let’s get the record straight, I’m not a quitter and neither myself and me never will be.
Friday, September 7, 2007
First Vexation
I am in such a lassitude that I can hardly incorporate into living. I thought of not living today and I chose to remain silent; I'm annoyed of all things and subjects surrounding me. I'm under the shadow of somber thoughts; at least is one of my justifications of not wanting to see what’s around me. Why did I wake up in the first place? Days like this are incorrigible; time is insufficient when I wish not to think and see or feel nothing; I prefer to sleep until better eyes see.
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