Dreamy
I wish I owned a helpful book entitled How to Forgive Your Parents… so I could stop licking the wounds of my childhood and begin to nurture the woman I know I’m capable of becoming.
Sometimes tears say all there is to say
Sometimes your first scars won’t ever fade away
Tried to break my heart
Well it’s already broke
Tried to hang me high
Well I’m choked
Wanted rain on me
Well I’m soaked
Soaked to the skin
It’s the end where I begin
It’s the end where I begin
Sometimes we don’t learn from our mistakes
Sometimes we’ve no choice but to walk away, away
Neruda is love
Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because — because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you’ll have gone so far I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Walking like a one-man army
Fighting with the shadows in my head.
Living out the same old moment
Knowing I’d be better off instead.
…
Have no fear for giving in.
Have no fear for giving over.
Try another me and I will try another you
Or put my arms around you
Like I think you want me to
But tell me what you’re thinking
I so often misconstrue
Treading water, treading white wine
Seeing borders, seeing straight lines
I get these feelings that I don’t
Have much time
If You Forget Me (Neruda)
I want you to know one thing.
You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.
But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine
I think bullfights are for men who aren’t very brave and wish they were. If you saw one you’ll know what I mean. Remember after all the cape work when the bull tries to kill something that isn’t there? Remember how he gets confused and uneasy, sometimes just stands and looks for an answer? Well, then they have to give him a horse or his heart will break. He has to get his horns into something solid or his spirit dies. Well, I’m that horse. And that’s the kind of men I get; confused and puzzled. If they can get a horn into me, that’s a little triumph.”
— John Steinbeck (The Winter of Our Discontent)
