lunes, 8 de junio de 2009

A story, two possible truths and a single teller

First truth told

I've sadly discovered that I can only understand what’s been previously explained to me.

What leaves my intelligence out of the table.

But what’s even more pathetic is that I happen to be inspired by a pre-existing fact or thought.

What leaves my creativity out of the table too.

So basically my intellect consists in unconsciously forgetting any original knowledge and invent a fake reality.

What leavess my purpose completely on the table.

Second one

The reason I write for it’s another fake mystery. Because it is not caused by an overwhelming creative power as I like to think. The truth it’s that this push is fear.

The fear of forgetting what I’ve learned… The fear of been forgotten.

The story

And there was him kissing her and there was she watching them. He perceived the smell of her hair and immediately stopped his passional crime. But that hair was already walking trough the door when he intended to grab her arm and give her his explanation; an explanation she didn´t need- because explanations only take place in a confused mind-and she never expected a different reality.

She never thought he was different because different occurs to be rare and no one wants to kiss rare, otherwise they prefer to marry unhappiness. And she was not different, because different happens to be feared and no one wants rejection.

What makes all of us want to make a difference but not really mean it because what we all truly want it’s to be understood.

Of course she will forgive him and of course she will smile… till the bells of unhappiness sound and normal never end.

4 comentarios:

F. K. Woods dijo...

Hermana hace mucho tiempo que descubría algo que me pudo haber llevado a la tumba... no somos diferentes, queremos ser diferentes... IGUAL QUE TODO EL MUNDO!

Teamcry dijo...

Todos olvidamos.. algún día, pero olvidamos..
y si no es así, la muerte llega para recordarnos que tenemos que hacerlo..

La solución; llevarlo con calma!


Pesadilla dijo...

Yo opino que ella le debió dar un tiro y culminar el crimen

R. J. Woolf dijo...

ja ja
Porque no se me ocurrio, ea que quise darle un descanso a la sangre en mis escritos (ver "para tu bala mi pecho)