what is the deal with The Deal?

Me senté a tomar un café con Esteban. Negro, con dos cucharaditas de canela y una de azúcar. Hubo un silencio breve, pero sepulcral. Carajo, Esteban. Que tu no me puedes conocer tanto; las lagunas, las millas y los relojes deberían significarte algo...
"pero a ti tampoco"- me dijo.

Me quede silente por un par de minutos; Esteban sabía que me encontraba en penumbras... después, musitó unas palabras que no me resultaron ajenas: "love can only be romantic when it's unfulfilled"... y como me vienen mal los pesimismos, o cualquier tipo de resignación heróica, un "esa no es la cuestión" salió a flote, tomando asiento improvisadamente.

"There is a storm, man. It's around me, it's within me, and sometimes I fear it IS me. To the naked eye, the perception of self feels distrubingly distorted. How much is real? how much is pure reflection of a raging void, the unmistakeable shrowd of nothingness...? You see everything. You've seen everything. You stripped all that was around me and you touched everything that is within me. You have seen REALITY. So now, you have to tell me.
You have to tell me."

Even him, with filthy hands, knew there was nothing perverted about that statement. He recognized right away a throbbing, raw naivety. So he stared calmly. That is The Deal with acknowledged souls. He stared in silence.That old myth about the calm pond and the bedroom eyes wasn't even necessary, although bedroom eyes was always my favourite given euphemism.

At this moment, I could throw a fist across the table and punch you. But the coffee is good. And, most times, so are you. Regardless of those 7 years ahead.

Only unfulfilled love can be romantic*... sure, como no. Yo tambié guardo algún altar por Almodóvar.

*Vicky, Christina, Barcelona.

diego.

Les fleurs les jardins les jets d'eau les sourires
Et la douceur de vivre
Un homme est là par terre et baigne dans son sang
Les souvenirs les fleurs les jets d'eau les jardins
Les rêves enfantins
Un homme est là par terre comme un paquet sanglant
Les fleurs les jets d'eau les jardins les souvenirs
Et la douceur de vivre
Un homme est là par terre comme un enfant dormant.


Le fusillé
Jacques Prévert

a few words On Combustion...

I'm signing a request for a strobol-outbreak. Just like absolut silence, in absolut madness one tends to take core turns in life. I find this to be true. Or maybe, -just maybe- the lack of something raw, something pure, something brutal and something honest, is a sole responsable for more derangement to arrive. How much longer can we really fake this? and, also, let me ask you this: who are we really fooling? honestly, is this fooling anyone else?

Where there's a storm there's a hallway... no matter how long the entrance takes, in the end you're facing a mirror, and this mirror thrives for raw, pure, honest... this mirror will show no mercy: "either you deal with me or you're fucked." What an upfront, cocky attitude towards confrontational distress... should we ever be so lucky to pull that off with absolutely no remorse if the choice lays on rather being fucked. Personally, I prefer to strip and slowly walk towards it, but of course this is not a statement or a rebellion call for my own uneasiness.... I just felt a big itch rising up my chest, and it was certainly necessary to just cough.