Well, as always happens with reality, the end comes as an anticlimax, as a slow extinction of the passions, taste, emotions . This capacity of man to get used to anything is the death of every feeling, every emotion, any dream lyric.
as he passed through, and passed the nerve and well planted on the legs do not tremble, the stupid subject last time appeared again in the cafeteria at Perisur. Claudia was there, something different, because the lack of clarifying the eye nerves. Lacked that aura of romantic beauty, having overcome the wasting disease, beauty, lacked the shimmering skin of the subject that morphine addict imagined, invented or discovered anything as an echo of a time gone, another life, a forgotten book. Claudia, more like herself than the desire or the dream of others and, therefore, simpler, less frightening. Beautiful, but not enough to pass out to a lunatic poetaster nervous. Not anymore.
The poetaster, meanwhile, did not know how to attract the eyes of Claudia. Arrived, it was silly, ordered a coffee, he heard her voice, waited for her to turn around. But their eyes met again. There was no smile, there was that brief space of uncertainty accompanying cosmic eye recognizing that dream, lost in an instant. Poetaster the end of the day, could not help but murmur a bad verse as an antidote to the disappointment. The fault is one.
The usual doubts: have not see you, perhaps not find the verses, perhaps sorrow, fear, convention, sadness. Perhaps as never said without saying a mediocre fiction, the fault is one that is not love. All questions, reproaches touring the soul of that poetaster of napkins and improvise. Questions, broken dreams, while his feet firmly on the ground again, away from the bar in the cafeteria and again the shadow or the faceless man who failed to draw the attention of a fairly beautiful girl.
Perhaps the same happened to her, half in disappointment, imagine a thing and the end, when he actually stood in front more or less distinct, preferred indifference to ridicule. Would also have thought the poet during the week, waiting for his return, for their sake, he did not know it when we was in front, not sure because he recognized, without fear, was not made the subject of false illusions. And it's better that way, because you're waiting, like the poet, an encounter with the ideal forms of each chance meeting, sad, anticlimactic.
's better this way, repeated the poet. He sought solace in the infinite. It is better because at the end of the day, everything happened as it had to happen, perhaps more quickly than would have liked, but I had to go. My love is nothing more than a promise of disappointment with no expiration date; curse and find happiness until the world has the last word. The veil that fell from his eyes to us this afternoon about the lack of nervousness or by coincidence, have fallen in any way tomorrow or next year, and instead of writing his name on the secret of love I could have would have had to write in the number of those who left. All wounds of disappointment. This time, superficial wound, but one more.
Anyway, all ended up alone. Ahead of the time nothing is wrong. Today, tomorrow or no later than the day we pay our debt to the earth, we will meet and judge us only by scars left by the dream to die. The fault is one that does not fall in love and when love, bad love. We know not forget themselves.
Friday, April 17, 2009
00:33 Hrs.
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