Loves are possible or they are not true

March 29, 2022. No. 198

An impulse comes to me from some future moment, like the indecipherable sound of a song that has not been made. It must be the sweet torment of writing knowing that I won't see you but you will be. In a precise corner that I cannot suspect, your soul will be revising these lines while I am absent from the party to find out if you like me. Sometimes letters arrive that stir the desire to populate you with verses and these pages remain small with which I only count to kiss you back. I already know that I am doomed to lose your eyes but that does not prevent me from trembling when, for them, I weave the dreams of this trace of time that you call, in the silence of your reading.

"How I spend papers reminding you,

how do you make me speak in the silence,

how do you not get rid of the desire

Although no one ever sees me with you.

And how time flies

that suddenly are years,

without going through me detained.

I give you a song if I open a door

and you come out of the shadow

I give you a song at dawn,

when I most want your light.

I give you a song when you show up

the mystery of love,

and if you don't show it I don't care:

I give you a song.

According to many, time heals the pain caused by those failed loves:

Together with you, I filled my future with dreams,

I managed to identify your beauty and the world upside down,

They looked at us in good faith:

Nothing cruel existed, if I saw you I laughed later.

I woke up the morning it couldn't be,

not without first swearing that if it was never with you,

that this wound would kill me:

and here I am, what a destiny!

I couldn't even remember your name."

These verses may seem like a version of the proverb one nail pulls out another, which we use to say that with a new love the previous failure is forgotten. Although I interpret it rather as an ironic game, with the tone of melodrama with which we usually wrap a relationship breakup: we believe that the world suddenly falls apart and after a little while you heal.

I must confess that I do not believe in impossible loves, loves are possible or they are not true. It does seem to me that there is a prologue, in the relationships of rapprochement of beings, that should not be missing: that time of trial and error and insecurities that is very enjoyable. There are those who rush towards sexual intercourse thinking to find in bed (or in the place chosen for that matter) the answers of happiness. However, this meeting of bodies cannot be sublime if the spirits are not at one with each other. There is a superior force that generates a special tenderness, which translates into incomparable joy, which is in the harmony of souls. Physical surrender is also a search for the other and helps communication, but to enter this exploration it is necessary to start from unlimited surrender, which is only born from the affinity of feelings and thoughts.

Those who go only to quench their physical thirst practice epidermal, selfish sex, and instead of exploring the infinite spaces that open up in tenderness, they apply formulas to reach orgasm by the most clumsy path.

There are those who have a bed as their goal and not to go further in the happiness of the other, those who remain as traces of oblivion between the sheets and do not get to know what love really is, which is something like not having lived.

Take your time. It is the most leftover in the universe.