emotionally irresponsible
se trata de la certeza que tu amplitud es mi horizonte
Just a few words strung together.
They must have really meant something to somebody,
but I don't mind creatively remixing (hopefully, neither does Andrés Neuman)
It seems silly, I know.
Carrying this phrase around in my imaginary pocket, hoping I'll mean it.
Like the invisible words in the tiny book I wear around my neck.
Sometimes I wonder if life is all preparation and implementation.
And if those fleeting moments that we are all hunting for,
- Camouflage, rifle and an open heart?
if we'll even know it when we find them.
And here I am, hardly remembering what it feels to mean it.
Mumbling imperatives like "use me up!"
Only to see what it would be like.
Just to be true to the search.
And if ever I should forget.
That your borders are the boundaries of my world.
I've got it in writing.
The chicken and the egg, the writer and the word
Language speaks us, wrote Saussure and Foucault agreed.
We do the talking, but it's the boundaries of our narratives that create us.
"There is no outside the text", offered Derrida, failing to distinguish himself from the early (de-) constructionists.
Storytellers are created as their stories unravel.
I specialize in romantic dramas.
Never a conscious decision, I simply ended up discovering the world like this.
Although there was always an emphasis on drama, as romance was always in short supply.
A love story is the work of alchemist magic.
Not the pink, fluffy hollywood kind.
The heavy, moist, yet fleetingly light stories tinged with passion and elusive depth.
Taking mundane moments and turning them into sinister omens.
A brief glance between strangers become a divine intervention or the fulfillment of ones destiny.
I write the word S E R E N D I P I T Y and there it is, insisting on its own being.
I erase and write W E L T S C H M E R Z and I feel it in the pit of my stomach.
This pressing burden of irrevocable sadness for all that will never be.
I think I am writing the world, yet Foucault reminds me that the world is writing me.
A good story takes you by the hand and nudges you along before you second guess your choice.
Choice? No such thing.
You are the story now.
