A veces escribo para distraerme, otras veces sólo para concentrarme en escribir. Normalmente me duele empezar y cuando lo consigo no hay como detenerme. En sí soy adicta a escribir. La literatura para mí es un frenesí, sin ella sufro más de lo que sufro por ella. Porque todo lo que realmente amas, duele. Por eso me dueles tú. Porque te amo.

domingo, 15 de septiembre de 2013

Verso libre

Yo encontré inspiración para escribir.
Creo que va para largo.

¿En qué te inspiras?

En que hace unos muchos meses
leí por primera vez The Bell Jar
y recuerdo, que antes de eso,
leí The Virgin Suicides y Girl, Interrupted.
Y estoy un poco en ese mood emocional,
tristón, sin ganas de vivir.
Lo que La Maga podría llamar
"el mal de Oliveira",
en que todo me duele.
Respirar, sola, en mi cama,
bajo mis sábanas frías, me duele.

Hoy es un día lleno de recuerdos,
más que de vivencias.

Sí que lo es.
Sobretodo cuando pasas una tarde completa
en un café
con una persona que
solías conocer
como a la palma de tu mano.
Sólo para darte cuenta
que ya no sólo dejaste de extrañarlo
sino que crees que estarás mejor lejos de ese ser.

lunes, 29 de julio de 2013

After Dark



Eyes mark the shape of the city

Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair. In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature—or more like a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms. Countless arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old, sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new contradictions and collecting the old. To the rhythm of its pulsing, all parts of the body flicker and flare up and squirm. Midnight is approaching, and while the peak of activity has passed, the basal metabolism that maintains life continues undiminished, producing the basso continuo of the city's moan, a monotonous sound that neither rises nor falls but is pregnant with foreboding.

Our line of sight chooses an area of concentrated brightness and, focusing there, silently descends to it—a sea of neon colors. They call this place an “amusement district.” The giant digital screens fastened to the sides of buildings fall silent as midnight approaches, but loudspeakers on storefronts keep pumping out exaggerated hip-hop bass lines. A large game center crammed with young people; wild electronic sounds; a group of college students spilling out from a bar; teenage girls with brilliant bleached hair, healthy legs thrusting out from micromini skirts; dark-suited men racing across diagonal crosswalks for the last trains to the suburbs. Even at this hour, the karaoke club pitchmen keep shouting for customers. A flashy black station wagon drifts down the street as if taking stock of the district through its black-tinted windows. The car looks like a deep-sea creature with specialized skin and organs. Two young policemen patrol the street with tense expressions, but no one seems to notice them. The district plays by its own rules at a time like this. The season is late autumn. No wind is blowing, but the air carries a chill. The date is just about to change.

Haruki Murakami (Excerpt from After Dark)