Spaceship

I'm afraid of becoming different. I'm fearful of one morning being another person, of thinking too much, of questioning everything and trying to get away melancholy. I'm terrified of knowing everyone, of saying hello to all those people and remembering their names, of not being timid, of being a kind and friendly person the people says I am. Of course, I am not that. I don't keep a smile on my life; neither is nice nor sexy. I am too worried about thinking all time, about the conversations with myself and the healthy practices of waking up early, reading a lot, exercise and not eat meat. What will happen to me in this way? What will I become on this road? What will I do with the vacuum of no pain? I don't want to be that handsome guy, I don't want the cute smiling I see on the mirrors every morning, I don't want to smell sweet. I don't know what is happening; I don't know what is different now. I want my obscure Mondays; I need my unsolved dramas, th...

Me gustaría ser tan bueno como Serrat para describir todo lo que puede cambiar tan sólo un segundo, tan sólo un acto de la creatividad. Y es que hasta entonces las cosas habían sido buenas. A pesar de todos los problemas viviendo en mi cabeza, el día había traído la oportunidad de verme elegante, la creatividad y el cariño de los amigos, la espontaneidad de las travesuras y la dulzura de un café en la mañana. Había también podido compartir la intensidad de un argumento y las millonarias carcajadas que siempre alimentan el día. Esas son buenas y pequeñas cosas que ayudan a superar la vida difícil. Son esos momentos que alimentan almas desdichadas y que siempre otorgan la esperanza de que la vida vaya mejor, pero hay una diferencia muy clara. En este mundo en que esconderse es tan sencillo como tomar el teléfono y mirar otros mundos construidos afuera de nuestra realidad, esconderse a la mitad del mundo para formar un oasis particular tiene un mérito aparte.  Y ella sabe ...

My mind is blocked when I'm writing a word on you. There's no reason, no bad feeling, no pain, but I know the appropriation is mine. Your memories are mine; I don't want even share them with my writing. The memories of you are apart from the world; they are far away. They don't live in the fire, and the passion of handwriting but they live there, enough, permanent. I know, however, you're made of all of the elements. The fire lives on you but is calm and shiny, comforting, balanced. I've been heating by those flames so many times that I got used to getting burned. I'm used to your water also. Patient and infinite, wise and eternal. Full of life but wild and destructive. I've been drinking for a long time but I'm always thirsty.  I've also seen the passion, and the wild wind, but I'd better like to remember the soft touch of your hands in my hands. You are the elements together, and the perfection of someone I've renounced and I'm not ...

You are the expression of the limits just from your name.  Every detail of you is expressed in the closest way to perfection, but it has the advantage of being just simple to construct even more perfect being. There's no description for that. Your limits come from the sky, as the colour of your eyes, and the deepest part of the infinite is not brighter than your smile, the shadows are part of the contrast to understand the complementarities between light and dark. Every hair of yours is made of durable finest thread, golden and bright as forbidden treasures, longer and not so straight to be lost in its deepest aroma. Your beauty is as natural as the warming sun rays after a long winter, fresh and relieving, sweet all the time. The expression is candid, and the look is unstoppable, but everything conjugated is what makes you strong. Is not any part of you outside the frontier of perfection, but it's the combination of everything that turns you, human. The symmetry of your hips i...

Have you dreamed about you? How do you dream? Do you dream? Your questions are killing me at the same time that I'm trying to transform the sleeping time on peace. I'm not up; I'm not sleeping, but your inquiries are just there. It's just casual! I said, at the same time, I'm trying to defend myself from my real thoughts. Would it be possible that I'm taking something from her when I've got you in my nights? What does that mean? You wake me up again. It's the third time in this week you say her name; you're saying upset and naked. I'm allegedly screaming my love for her, everything in my dreams, with the complicity of the night. I deliberately don't remember any detail; I don't know what are you talking about. There's no real explanation on that. It's only in my dreams. I barely remember her, but she's there. I have a solid routine to make everything except thinking, excel filling my thoughts. I'm trying to feed every seco...