Strange is to see you, know that you exist, put your name in the search and find. You're not dead, you are not fled, less than an hour left a comment in the post from a friend, and yesterday published an article about a film that made you shudder, thrill you, writing a passionate
speech on the essential feelings that distinguish humans from animals soulless. And the latter has proved ironic. Fucking ironic.
No, it is you're not dead, you're just half gone, invisible to the extent of your desire, incorporeal only to some, for three, two, for a particular person. One that has made the same first name. That it is so good to say, that you reaffirm your uniqueness and difference from the rest. That on which label it a gob spit out a slimy guts.
How strange to see you smile. Look at the camera and smiling as usual, as if there were the past, fingerprints flesh and blood. The names, life in the blanks, the old photographs and your hugs, the kisses you gave and the distance without bridges. As if everything was a lie, a few days of transient fever and nothing else.
it's funny to see so bold and happy, showing off rather than hide. Impudent and shameless in place of veiled and anonymous so that he can not see you smile. Cynical and impudent, living full of oblivion. Indifferent, waterproof, satisfied and happy. I do not know why you would feel shame. So as to hide, to live without being seen, in silence, ashamed, sorry, in another country.
How strange to see, hear from you. Green clowning around, dressing up, joking, smiling. Assumed with the shirt of Spain the day we won the World Cup. Football and the friends, family and children. All together. Euphoria, immortality and happiness. That day to celebrate between hugs, shouts and songs. To remember and save.
What do you think when you see the children of others? The children of your friends. Parents playing with their children. Do you feel anything? Do you know the definition of regret? Or you're just an animal without a soul?
How strange to see others admire. Your long list, your thousands of friends, your triumphs, your success, your books and travel.
How strange to see others admire you wanting to be photographed with you, take you shoulder, laugh thank you, follow the game. I believe you a bright guy, interesting, educated, witty, an example perhaps. Journalist, writer, screenwriter, critic, photographer, painter. Yes, I admired you when I met you, I too thought you were a bright guy, interesting, educated, someone you listen carefully and learn from.
And now how easy it is to see and despise. Look at you and hate you. Feeling the urge to vomit to see your smile and your happiness. Insult you, call you bastard, you bastard. Feeling the urge to blow your theater of vanities, your shed Renaissance writer and painter. Green humiliated, put the trip and Descojonado, make clear your pose, your talk pedantic, your great lack of humanity and conscience. Tell all your fault, your sin, your resignation and desertion, the secret you've never told, what all those thousands who seem to admire not know you. Yuck
sorry to see you smile. Look at the camera and smile as if nothing, as if there were no flesh and blood, your name and life, love and pain. The maze of loss, innocence and guilt, white space, water is not potable and amputation.
I wonder what you think if they knew? If now, on your wall, put your name and talk about it, certifying that four years after his birth to go and you completely forgot that since you have not seen him even once. You ignore it as if there were, like it was a gamble, a stage of your life to burn and blow, an animal that left abandoned at a gas station as summer arrives, an old photograph that is forgotten a rented flat.
What would you? Do you continue to admire the thousands? Would they follow laughing thanks?
listening to pontificate about the essential feelings that distinguish humans from animals soulless. Do you?, Would you still tú sonriendo como si nada?
Qué extraño resulta contar los años con los dedos de las manos de un niño. Sumar y restar. Uno menos uno: cero. Cero más cero: cero.
Contar desde el siglo nuevo; un año fácil para nacer y llevar las cuentas de una vida. Un año imposible de olvidar.
Contar desde cero y esperar a septiembre, cinco días después del tuyo. Justo cinco días después. Uno y cinco: seis. Y siempre, cada año, pienso lo mismo. Cuando es tu cumpleaños, ¿nunca te acuerdas del suyo? ¿Ese día nunca te acuerdas de su nombre, de su edad, de su existencia, de sus preguntas, de su orfandad? ¿Nunca te ha dolido en el alma?, grandísimo cabrón.
How strange not seeing you for years and find you now, out of curiosity, in this open window by which the world is naked and shows his miseries and his heroes, his pustules and sores.
find you and see you smile, talk to your girl and the August sun on your legs, light, sunset and clouds of ripe pumpkin.
Teach your paintings and your photos, your jokes, your play on words and exclamations and laughter in writing of your sycophants.
Talking about your friends and their parties, the writers show, and I fondly dedicate their books. Your freedom without strings attached and no commitments, no school schedules, and emergency winter evenings, sacrifices responsibility or purgatory.
How strange to know what I know and see all those learners that will respect both writers and seek your critical acclaim. Know your books published, your professional experience, your impressive resume, your wisdom, your black leather jacket and your exotic travels. And again I feel an arch to think that at some point, in public or in private, could talk of morality, ethics and justice, just causes and unjust wars, speak of love your girl under the moon in July. Yuck
and what I feel disgusted to learn what I suppose you've never told her. The frozen time of those years, gagged, choked, submerged in a pool of plutonium and concrete: divorce without answering, address and whereabouts unknown, default judgments and gives up the custody and maintenance for your child. And every September he has a birthday and you evaporated, absent paying with silence and contempt that still has life, giving him ruthless and brutal indifference.
How painful and how hard it is to see you smile and think about your child. See you smile and know that he does not exist for you. There are his hunger and fear, her duties, her party on Saturday, their present and future. His farsightedness and his glasses, his braces, his successes and failures, its instability, nightmares when the light turns off.
How strange to know that your first name is yours and you do not know. You can open a window and see you smile. Knowing you're not dead, who live in the same town as him.
How painful it is to imagine how he feels about you. Knowing that my sister had to lie every time I asked where were you, when you were going to come back. Which for years had to invent an excuse, a lie, a country without a phone, a job abroad without holidays or back planes. He lied until one day he stopped to ask you, discovered the truth, the absolute value of zero, the meaning of black holes, dissolution Atom, stagnant water and rotting, the 19 March and sterility, and demonstrative adjectives, hypocrisy and the tribe of the Pharisees, hatred, and their synonyms, immorality and tar, humiliation and contempt, freezing and sour milk.
Your smile and your happiness as an insult, an insult, a stabbing, a betrayal. The photographic portrait, hyper-realistic, accurate and true to your humanity. Your epitaph
blank, empty space, without soul or matter in your stone and your grave. Text
For many years you dream of something that never has. An illusion that has always silent. Something that you know others do not understand, believe absurd and crazy. A solo journey on foot crossing a region. Maybe he lived free Litter childhood, or perhaps the Maestrazgo who loved and hated his grandfather. Yes, walking alone and carrying a notebook in which to count steps. I knew before. What he discovered in the silence and solitude. Yes, always have the illusion and always postponed. By cowardice, incompatibility, or hache be. Yes, always wanting and never do so. 
I do not know, I guess it is quite immature and superficial, but I fear that the first reaction is inevitable. As divert generous look at the neckline instead of looking directly into her eyes. I acknowledge that I have sinned. Although I guess that's also part of the game. After the image is a really powerful magnet and makes you closer, open it and look at it with a strange mixture of tremor and guilt, and decides to buy it and hide it in the newspaper. Then read it alone with the latch cast. Or maybe you thought it out on the bus and amaze a few travelers. Adorable grandmothers, teenagers without internet, curious about narratofilia . Fifty years ago this book would have been a scandal. Unacceptable. Today perhaps nothing surprising because it is so seen. Although does not cease to be effective. Attractive object, toy illustrated, paper fetish, secret magnetic field dark side of force. 
Phonograph damn 
guess this is living. Gift of friendship. Of empathy, affinity. Of the details materialize without retail price of the value of indelible. 
Strange is to see you, know that you exist, put your name in the search and find. You're not dead, you are not fled, less than an hour left a comment in the post from a friend, and yesterday published an article about a film that made you shudder, thrill you, writing a passionate speech on the essential feelings that distinguish humans from animals soulless. And the latter has proved ironic. Fucking ironic. 
