Histories of principle of century

Rosana Cortez Noguera

Prologue

Veronica

a tree, hung of three lights, yellows, red and green. An empty scene. A clear one in the sky that does not let observe to me; my psychologist and I, hoping by some word hers.- You do not persecute to me in your shade, it said to me, and you do not persecute yourself in mine, - it said to me.And while we culminated our drinks, between orange blossoms

and roses of vidrioso plastic it said to me again and it repeated:- “ the session culminates by always, Veronica, and no longer you must, neither you will have to flee, don't mention it nor of nobody, not even of same you. ” begins a new life? and neither or, raising me of my chair between laughter, and colorful flowers to the green lemon, I took my apple tree, leaves from my; I left again by a slippery door from the Greater Seat to Quilmes, and I was myself, walking slow, smiling without closing the door, knowing that the rain of the

northeast would close it by always in this ungrateful time.

Ceilings

CeilingsEphemeral a noble game and; from the ceiling, elevators of by means. Watching all towards the gale.Prey of a city without peace. Eddy of ideas. And they who separate in an immense hug to the sky like wide-awake clouds that try to reach the fullness of the borders of

an open reason. Almost petals without light.Marks. ? The solitude is not the infinite? - it thought. And after the sign that left him her mother from the cradle ran. like a man without inherited fortune.While the salt, that of the kitchen left smoky after the tragedy, remained consumed.Almost trastos without owner. Abysses without leaving color.And this one is the history of a traveler without ground, of a fleeting love; that between the lives of a deep sun it had to fix a

limit between the death and the frustration of an unfinished dream?

II

behind schedule, from untiring delirium, I came to stop here, in my silence disappeared in three the clouds that form with the stench of a cigarette. Stupefied between its smile and mine.

We knew ourselves well, that already of as much walking

between the grass and rain, we knew the 70 kilometers until the place that always reunited to us: our dwelling.

And although, never I was its slave or leaves from the peonada one, I knew well like serving it; how to maintain its mount before going to the drip jar and after its game, how to clean up the shirts that it soiled day after day.

In house we ate much stepped on maize and rice with milk and cinnamon, smoky, after supper.

I never knew how not to obey to him. I never knew to put that precise limit between not and yes, it can be; and thus simply we lived together, without children, with our sisters and yer to us; people who were not consanguínea family, but part of the family to the aim.

This is history without ground, of a fleeting love; that between the lives of a deep sun it had to fix the death of the summer, and for but, always never eternally happy? The imaginary fiancè of the Srta. Honoria

El pais prayed. Eva Peron tejia. Meanwhile, the scandal of the ships of meat CAP habÃa left of the town, very but fed very well.

Changing of subject, Shad, Sheila, Carmen and Ramon had contracted, from towards three años atrás, like weeping in a duty station funebres. Murio³ Honoria, the midwife, said one of them.

Mummy and I remained congealed completely.

Mummy and I remained sad before that fact.

The Fife aunt smiled by such decease. It hid a familiar secret that accused it.

1924. The meats, the done aunt meat and I.

And continuous history with too many hidden secrets …

Sponges III

Children in the footbridge of the life (That somebody has them in its glory)

Pretty, plastic, slippery. Hoping to devour some glance. I observe them, as to my beloveds sponges of long ago; which only eat corpses of fish.Of fish between the dirt.In this case, these specimens are completely inverse. I do not know that it tends of clothes has consumed as much vestige.And it is that certain: each being of the nature this compound reason why eats.

Pray

Hopefully it was today, just by a delicious portion, of which I dreamed of you.Pale and sensible.Distant and absent between my arms.

The time has made damage within your bones, that still live.The dry time and its fruits within that belly that takes your soul,

something that it hoped to be born. Somebody who saw die to itself with his heart barking.

And most laborious of all this it is that no longer you can reconstruirte in all my dream, in your real and ephemeral essence. You cannot imagine how much love had for that irrealidad, that of vos never woke up nor will wake up; before the glance of an absent sun, frivolous and schematic, with the fantasy of your false tenderness long ago, here, between my arms.

No longer you can be never who never was, single an object in my past, between nights of summer.

Winter

I have the color of this confinement. He said: let us go to the eternity, coarse of abysses. And there we were, against seas and storms; with the oceans separating our relicarios, recently constructed by mother.

It had never seen my eyes of fence, nor I them his still, but the one is this cold that made me return to this sand, after to have stepped on grass of tar and cement. Here I am. Again. Hoping by that bottle that I looked for long ago,

with my paper in hand; list to fill it with this one, my message, and to again find it only when touching the foam?

Dialogue between deaf people.

Insanely probably accepted, the crazy person has two points of

view. But the crazy person is confused and does of his thoughts, ends of multiple thicknesses. Like yesterday, that counted a history trembling between letters until doing of its story without an end of places and names. It is thus in everything.Long ago that I know it, and between subject and subject I was falling in love with him.

Until I became its fiancè. They spent the years, and I, whom already she had like him, antecedent psychiatric was

becoming ill. But that was not the aim, since our relation, in spite ofto be dead, after my recovery, continued, until these days. No longer I returned to fall, but it seemed imprisoned, in his spiral of madness.It is that no longer I am plus a typical interlocutor of trasnochadas, I became one of its confusions. That it wants to me but does not love to me, that it loves to me but it costs to him and it hurts to accept it, that is and that is not. And no longer I understand it. Nor I can be moved away of him. And

until I feel in own meat his own insecurity.That I am and I am not, that I come and I do not come, that master and nonmaster. And this is what it happens to me. Of external personage I became protagonist, and no longer I can leave? Nor I want.

Purple

My soul is dyed of purple, deeply; and it only shines at that sudden moment in which his bruz burns my body between our passion and our sadness that, when uniting in

one, opens ample to my way of freedom My dawn to us was delayed, my spent circumstances invaded my precocious sigh. And the pain that me aqueja when single feeling to me in this bed, imagining these shelters to be their arms, calm to me until their arrival; because all the dreamed one for the night of last night it was only in a yearning, I truncate like a tree bleeding the destroyed being; vomiting sap like my blood that once again shouts to obstructed voices being to me with him in some recondite corner of this city?

Sometimes

Sometimes I would like acariciarte with my hands as well as it beams you only with your sounds, with your music.Sometimes I would like to die observándote, without falling in monotonía of my timidity that condemns to me.

I would like to clear your lips and besarte sweetly, thus smooth and.I would like to share each word and each laughter, each silence and each weeping in all minute that we share.Because the time is happening, love and the sounds do not arrive. We did not emit of our voices anything of which we felt; and these dumb lines increase these feelings that flow in me, turning them sighs that I cannot contain.Because everything what we did not say the night last night obstructs me when speaking, in this silence of not decirte how

much I love you, how much I need to you. And I go away with my desire to turn this red facts for the first time in these days of overwhelmed spring.I love you and there is no another reason more to live than these lines.

He is everything what I felt by him, and more.

He is everything what I felt by him.

II

A outlandish kiss communicates of the kiss of my adventure. A horseman andante, squalid and audacious; although afraid before my hug.Insolencias only leaves from their lips when some danger watchs it: so it is a this one deep wound, or that a warning of death.An endless ones of memories in my pale mind rides he, like an early dawn awaking in their smile. Because only he knows the extravagance of my still incognito life.

And it is only its mouth that knows my secrets, like the dumbest cell. He does not confess my dry words.An enamored kiss communicates of my feeling towards him, in a not very recondite corner of my soul. It is why its presence, fortifying itself day to day, looks for my awaited breeze arrival to again venture in his nevertheless so smooth simpleza to me so appraised by me in its smile?

IV

Paper in target. A pale coffee between leaves of a sea that still begins. Walls of a book of pink color that are opened and closed.A cigarette.

I stop, while this red that slides, makes me affect between paper under a moon without stars.

A sea and a love. Cartridges of a cylinder that runs moved before an uncertain future.

Nothing I will already be able to do without all this.

Anybody

does not write. Somebody must write and it does not write. It does not respond. It is speechless and blind. Anybody does not read, does not write. Somebody remains shut up of its room, between pillows and dreamed skies in center. Somebody thinks. Somebody decides. Somebody must have to

decide so that another somebody alive one. Somebody aims. Perhaps one notices or a trigger. Somebody dies. At this precise moment or another one. At that same moment in which somebody is born or lives. Somebody creates or creates. In something or something.

Somebody feels. Somebody causes that sensation so that another somebody does the previous thing. Somebody; at this moment. Today. Already.

Sima

the intangible world in an endless ones of memories, solids and. Stupid like your physical beauty escudriñando to me in your smile. Your lips know firm, squalid and schematic. Without because defined. They kiss to me and they isolate to me in a single vibration; as if all your errors became acid between my malherida thirst.

They graze to me and condemn to a life without reason; like a ghost in the desert.Your world in a fright. Dreams without made love. It only freezes between my soft fingers that fight by entibiar themselves. Timidly pale.Because your world already moves away, and I cannot do nothing before this, love. Only lack to hope that our bones become trizas, like a lost boat in one sima. Like a ghost in a drowned desert.

Incognito love

an overcome soul and the love that does not arrive. Looking for because.Solemn love.Your voice from some side of the wind makes me vanish, moved; without at least knowing the color your eyes in this so dark place.Your voice.And it is that I went away beginning to amarte without never to have kissed your lips, thus, with the ruthless rate of your voice, that condemns to me absolute in this

cold day of summer under your smile.

In this squalid and aloof place in vos, that takes my love and soon it leaves it only in a word.Memory that time in which I said to you:

-Find me in the half of the way and you do not leave me. White and soft.

Find me without considering the time.

Find me finally under this sky; before this way that we walk

together. And you never leave?

Beard

Women in beard. Yes. Women. And in beard. From the pear to the feet. Covering all the body. With its

rebosantes stomachs of happiness. Covering itself with the cold. Beard. Abundant. Beard.

They maintain them, and they take it to the neck. As much hair does not have as much weight. They handle them and they dye of diverse colors; since they do; they women, habitually with its hybrid aspect.

Meetings walk in row towards the border of a river dedicated to them. Without pain one sees them appear. Many. And without another

company that they themselves. Single. Women. Beard.Without another distraction that the one of rebozar and sheltering its hairy and completely clear body.Bathing in that river dedicated for them. Women. Beard. Glad. Beard.

Epilogue

Afternoon is seen fall suddenly from this point of my room; warm

and ignited; only in the imaginary one of a navigator.

Afternoon it falls, thus, like my tired legs. Tired of as much walking In this dirty city, red. Tapeworm therefore self-confidence.

My work and I, books in my dreams still without being made slow and bivouacs in each meditated silence.

Between poems and lights, in this sudden and behind schedule simultaneously slow; like each clear one in a haggard autumn, by

the dream to see these translúcidas lines in a paper?