petiteetoiledumatin

[petiteetoiledumatin]

Do I?

Even if I give just expecting the same.

Is it honest then

Is there any honesty in desire.

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“I’ve found that growing up means being honest. About what I want. What I need. What I feel. Who I am.”

— Epiphany

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I shatter and all the light spills out of me.

“I don’t know what living a balanced life feels like. When I am sad, I don’t cry, I pour. When I am happy, I don’t smile, I glow. When I am angry, I don’t yell, I burn. The good thing about feeling in extremes, is when I love, I give them wings. But perhaps that isn’t such a good thing, cause they always tend to leave and you should see me, when my heart is broken. I don’t grieve, I shatter.”

— Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

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Escribo en tres idiomas y no sé si me son suficientes.

Parfois je suis très romantique, nostalgique en français. C’est facile car personne que je connais parle bien français. Je peux dire ce que je veux sans peur d’être jugé. C’est comme un grand secret ensoleillé. Je parle de mes envies, de mes peurs. Je suis nue et je danse la nuit.

In english I have all kinds of figures in my head, every color, every metaphore and my mind flows easily. In english I have trouble describing myself and others but I can describe without any trouble the cities, the feel of things. I can smell and taste the rancid food, the smoke. Pollution. The fear of death. I have a soundtrack in my mind of only 70’s - 80’s rock bands, in english i want to wear leather and lose myself to an american night.

En español no puedo decir gran cosa. Me siento impedida. Expuesta. Escribo en español cuando soy sincera, pero me cuesta. Porque puedo oír mi voz y sé que me lees, me entiendes, no hace falta que pienses demasiado lo que digo, te atravieso. Y me da miedo. Evito pensar en español porque comienzo a decir verdades, me miro a mí misma y puedo encontrarme. No me gusta verme en estos días. Me reconozco aún entre el cabello enmarañado y los labios pálidos. Y me gustaría no saber quién es ese retrato, esa aparición. Me molesta tener que escribir en español, porque quisiera ocultarme de lo que tengo dentro. Pero no corro lo suficientemente rápido, más bien ese tren lleno de palabras me aplasta, me lleva por delante.

El español es como respirar profundo y sentir que tus pulmones se llenan, es el último segundo, cuando las costillas se separan al Máximo y el abdomen está completamente retraído, chupado. Es ese momento donde se para el corazón antes de soltar, una ráfaga que viene de las entrañas, que me tira del útero y hace que me duela el esternón. Es el vacío en el estómago después de la decepción. De la espera. Y no puedo escapar de él aunque quiera siempre me encuentro deslizandome en él. Me acaricia la lengua y a veces se convierte en lágrimas.

Lloro en español porque no sé llorar en otra lengua. Y si pudiera escoger en qué lengua llorar, quisiera que fuera en alemán. Una lengua que no conozco, que no entiendo, así como lo que tengo pegado al pecho. Y me da rabia llorar en mi lengua materna porque de todas maneras no puedo encontrar las palabras, me es totalmente inútil.

Quisiera ser feliz en italiano, y que las palabras me sepan a sol. J’aimerais être seule en portugais pour me perdre dans ma tête. I’d like to love in arabic so i can discover the unknown. Y quiero saber cualquier otra lengua para llegar a saber, tan siquiera un poco, cómo decirte lo que tengo en la cabeza.

[petiteetoiledumatin]

Je suis là encore

Mais endormie, pour ne perdre pas la tête en pensant à toi. Je suis dans un sommeil fatiguant, silencieux, que me fait mal au dos, mais je ne peux pas m’échapper. De toi, de ma pensé, des souvenirs, des fantômes, de mes fantasmes.

Et je te récite des poèmes dans le noir, je peux encore voir tes lèvres si je serre mes yeux fermement, c’est comme si t’étais dessiné sur ma pupille. Et on danse, on rigole, on s’embrasse la journée entière. Je sens ton cigarette. Je caresse tes bras en disant que tu me plais. Je te donne l’envie et on parle de partir. Tous ensemble. Tous naïfs.

J’aimerais ne te voir plus entre mes cils. Car t’es un trou qui va de ma tête à mon pied. Dans lequel je me perds. Et je tourne infiniment.

Je veux rester endormie pendant je trouve une nouvelle fantaisie. Mais je sais que tu serais la plus belle et la plus douloureuse de ma vie.

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Los días de enero

Me saben a azul eterno, medio dulzón y desagradable. El día pasa en blanco y no importa cuanto haga siento que no he hecho mucho. Siento escalofríos todo el día, llevo las manos frías y para mí no es de gripa, es de soledad.

Hace tiempo que tengo esa enfermedad, que a veces se vuelve adictiva, me recorre el cuerpo provocando pequeños espasmos, se me erizan los vellos, siento una piedra en mi garganta y una mano que aprieta mi corazón. Lloro todo el rato y practico falsamente mi risa pensando en escenarios que aún no han ocurrido y tal vez no ocurran. Me obsesiono con cosas mínimas, releo viejos escritos, releo conversaciones, releo poemas que me abren el pecho. Y siento inmensas ganas de abandonar todo y no sentir nada.

No sé cómo distraerme de este peso que llevo dentro, nadie quiere acompañarme a callar mi cerebro.

[petiteetoiledumatin]

Pienso que la razón principal por la cual prefiero vivir el amor de una forma fantasiosa, fuera de la vida real, es por la imposibilidad de no ser amada lo suficiente. En mis fantasías -despiertas o entre sueños- no hay límites para la cantidad de amor que puedo recibir. Ese amor es completo, como una gran historia que es contada linealmente, fácil de entender.

Encuentro que las veces que he buscado el amor en el mundo común, siempre tengo un pequeño nudo en el pecho,que me imposibilita comer, pensar claramente o hacer cualquier otra cosa que no sea pensar en ser amada, comienzo a fantasear con el desamor, la pérdida. Me he dado cuenta entonces que el amor nunca lo he experimentado, he experimentado la necesidad de este. Los constantes pensamientos intrusivos, las preguntas que nadie me sabe contestar con claridad. Siempre con peros, siempre con excusas. Me gustas y somos buenos para el otro, pero…

Pero

Pero no sabrías como tenerme. Odiarías verme algún día como un recuerdo, como una fantasía, luego de haberme tenido. Las fantasías son menos dolorosas cuando no hay que enfrentarse a la realidad del desasosiego, la incertidumbre. Por eso solo fantaseo con el amor, más ya no lo busco entre la gente, prefiero esa idea, perfecta e incorruptible, que puedo reproducir en mi cabeza cada vez que lo necesito. Y es doloroso, claro que lo es. Pero no lo sabes sino hasta que te enamoras de verdad, ese sueño te duele solo cuando ves que no ha sido posible. Pero mientras tanto, vives esperanzado. No hay nudo en el pecho, solo el deseo.

[petiteetoiledumatin]

Eddie is là,

Quand je peux pas dormir.

On parle de souvenirs,

Des chats noirs et la vie.

Eddie está là,

quand je n’ai personne dans ma vie.

Et c’est facile car on se connaît pas,

Mais je peux toujours lui faire rire.

Je t’écris, Eddie,

quand la nuit est lourde et je n’écoute que des pleurs silencieux

des chiens abandonnés dans cette rue de merde.

Je suis désolée de ne pas t’écrire quand tout est rose dans cette ville.

Mais je te promets que quand on se verra

(on sait pas quand)

j’aurai des poèmes à te lire.

[petiteetoiledumatin]

A random guy sent me a record of myself laughing to tears in the middle of the night, saying he missed me.

I think I gave a piece of myself to random people this past year. Guys, mostly, foreigners, at least 5 years older than me. I’m not saying I regret it. I was happy at the moment. I wanted to share what I was. And what I wanted to be.

I also cried with random guys this past few years, and I just think my heart right now is a museum full of strangers that got to know a very little room of me, small stories painted in very mediocre pieces, with very little detail. These strangers sometimes come back to remind me how I was when I was (I am) 20-21. I was sad, horny, happy, dreamy, angry. They come back even with apologies, explanations and most of times I don’t remember their names and if I told them my real one. Was I Tina, Lina, Mía, Pía?

I’m a museum cause I only tell old stories, the new ones I just haven’t gotten the time and courage to actually tell myself sincerely. And I keep living in my head, past and future, back and forward all the time. Day dreaming, whispering made up conversations and thinking I’m going crazy and that I’ll never be able to live truthfully like I’ve always wanted to.

These guys also have sent me books, love books, novels, poems, en français, in english, en español, italiano. But I never really felt like sending them anything to read. I was the book, a very complicated one, dramatic and tragic. I would change my story everyday, the color of my hair, the things I loved. I confused them constantly. I told them I liked them, that I understand, I’m lonely too, you are young, you are sweet, but not for me, you are great but I’m not free. Maybe when we get old, I’ll go after you and all these lies I just told you will be true, if just keep telling them enough.

Months after I’m not telling those lies anymore and I didn’t go after any of them. I never had the intention to actually do it. But I wanted to believe I did. That I’d have a great love story finally.

I did met some of them when I was in New York. We kissed, I laughed, we ate, we drank, maybe we got naked, maybe we just cried to a sad movie or danced to a shitty song I didn’t know. I told the truth for a while. But my hair was blond in New York. And my lips were red, I wore only blue clothes, I spoke english with no accent, my tits were bigger, I had a belly from eating too much ice cream and still, my name was Tina and not Vale. I didn’t tell them If I was coming back or why I stopped replying. I just took a plane to my country, put on colorful clothes and dyed my hair red. That’s all it took for me to forget them.

I guess that’s why they keep texting me unexpectedly. Maybe they believed my lies and they are still waiting for me… to take a plane and move to Sicily, Montpellier, Chicago, Marseille, Boston, Nantes, Verona, Lyon, Brujas, Cannes. So on and so on.

Maybe I just made this up.

[petiteetoiledumatin]

Flowers and Fruit, Henri Matisse, 1909

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"When I try to write a poem and then someone likes it, is it because inside they also carry and look for something similar? And what we are looking for always finds us. because just like me. Without knowing it, we all carry it inside"

To my weak and rudimentary literary domain I dare to say that; that is precisely the audacity of poetry, which inclines us to rediscover the feeling of love, which we all seek, but without knowing it, we already bring it within us.

"I think that at some point falling in love surprises us all."

On some occasion I met a beautiful, elegant and refined girl from Greece. Definitely with other ways of thinking and feeling. And I asked her what love meant to her, she answered me; it is something that is related to feeling and therefore, it is not something that can be reasoned or judged.

I also once fell madly in love, and I decided to write poems, but I immediately realized that what we know as love is very difficult to define or explain, because love is something that is felt or that someone without words understands it.

Can it be possible that in all biblical times in different parts of the world "loving" is something unusual that has influenced contemporary thought? From the time of the late middle ages (DanteAlliguiere). Even until the baroque times that transcended the so-called "Tenth muse". Sor Juana Ines De La Cruz. And other previous philosophers and poets make sense of the need to reason and elaborate a theory of love, that they try to conspire in that deep need with which man struggles epically: that of overcoming the exile of separation, penetrating interpersonal fusion and transcending own individual life.

TO THE WORLD In chasing me, world, what are you trying to do? In what do I offend you, insofar as I only try to put beauties in my understanding of beauties? I did not estimate treasures or riches and so they always make me happier to put riches in my understanding than not my understanding in riches. . .

But as we live, we have other experiences, what the hell will happen in our head, in the heart?. Sometimes we are surprised that although we swore eternal love to each other, we have a long enough time in a sentimental relationship, suddenly that idyll that for oneself and other people considered us an ideal couple is broken. Why does our love so abruptly turn into an utter failure?

"From love to resentment there is only one step"

What a phenomenon from another world must be the love that by not satisfying such a need can lead us to anxiety and madness: those who say they know "that a satisfaction of transcendental joy, full of it is only felt in love" have said. .

I would like to have lived in the time of the Nazarene who made wine with water, of the deities and gods, of everything that is said so much in books. Find all those brilliant minds and ask: What does love mean? Do you think like me; that it is not only an ambiguous personal relationship, but on the contrary it is a peculiar attitude of the experienced character that adheres to different ways of being: platonic love, brotherly love, erotic love, narcissistic love, love of a supreme man?

"Love so easy to write, in just four letters, but so difficult to find, understand and feel."

I do not know if my dissertation is correct or if it is a reverend stupidity because, lacking coarse academic studies, I am limited to showing what love means to my reason:

Given my menda and origin. I don't know how to say or pronounce select and beautiful words, but when I am amazed I am not distressed, I look at it squarely and determine with what many call a premise. "That love is not an accidental and mechanical phenomenon that is simply experienced. It is far above free will, something that requires learning, of joy and pain that is born, flows and emanates from deep captivity, when escaping it becomes . The art of Loving". That in an innate way until death will persecute us and we will carry inside.

—  Juan Francisco Palencia.    

[petiteetoiledumatin]