Intoxication dû mer, du soleil.

Too tired to sit still. Barely breathing, too weak to stand up.
The fluent blood felt sticky inside the veins, every heart beat hurted. The air that barely came across the throat became water inside, taking away tiny cords of the life left.
Sick in the middle of the tiniest bed. Bleeding water from the pores. The screams wouldn't reach anyone who would care. Was there someone, anyone from all of those which I talked to, which I showed my will for support, my inner strength, was there someone outside the room who would have enough hope inside for helping a brat like this? I had one name on mind. Should I? I will talk about her, maybe, if I get on my feet again. Thirst. Call her. The hope of knowing that she would absolutely answer and agree to help kept me up. For hours.
The rain made a strange symphony which I like, I could accept that as a sayonara. The pride of being strong enough, was I? Am I? How about all the times I've been wrong? What about the powder and the dirt? All the times the rice was not ready but still... What about the sea?
What about the wet toothbrush reflecting the tiredness? What from the pain? What from the sweetness of success? Call her. Call her.
 You are still alone. And you will always be. But if I call, the no will make me loose the hope. Hope is what keeps me here. Still. Breathing, bleeding, dreaming of pasts where everything was simpler. When I could keep my eyes open and blink on choice. 1 Rimbaud, 0 me.
Faim
Si j'ai du goût
C'est ne guère,
Que pour la terre et le pierre,
Je déjeune toujours de l'aire.
Les roc, les charbons, le fer.
Le loup? Or Le salade? Or Mangez?
Mqngew le cqllieux aue un bruse, les vielles pierres de egliese pqnse sqîes dqns les vqille grissssssssssssssssssssss
Gris gris.
And my French is so bad. But my memory is worse. Why can't I just get to a point where I was still playing, risking it all, never taking too seriously not even the sickness. And now for a bit of insanity, I am here, hopeless, surrounded by 37 million of nice people which will always help me to get anywhere I ask. I never asked to be here. Irashaimasen! Irashaimasen! Welcome, welcome. But welcome to what? The fridge will be as empty as the one Murakami drawed in the second bakery attack. And I don't like Murakami, I feel that he keeps on talking about the paradise he had drown and he will show us, but he won't. Who am I to not like him? A reader. Just that. A moribund reader. A bleeding, not breathing reader. Take the opinion as it is more useful. Rimbaud was right about the hunger, but I eat too much air, too much metal. I drank it melted, with soo much sugar. Menowarionegaishimasu. Always menowari. The heart hurts and now the head. Twenty million neurons are tickling, and now I do could sleep. The broken and dried lips play the jigsaw of perfection. And how beautiful! When things match, when things are made to be match. The itch it is evywhere. I feel sleepy, my eyes are closing. Call her. The throat closes more. Gris gris grisáceo. Qué bonita palabra. Me recuerda a níspero. Gris gris.  Call her. I don't even know why I write in English. My French is perfect. My memory is perfect. Are we a jigsaw?
Good morning Tomigaya. The sun had raised and sink so long ago, so many times. Call it Edo, Jimbocho or Shimokitazawa. Past, Past, present. No matter the order. Present future, past. Present past, future present, future past. Future future. Le loup. Le salad. La araignée. Mangez. Elle est retrouvée, Qui? Le éternité. C'est la mer mêle au soleil. La mer mêle au soleil.  There is no place nor time for love in Tokyo. There is no place nor time to love in Tokyo. There is no love. There is no place in Tokyo. There is no time in Tokyo. There is no place. There is no time. There is no Tokyo. There is love. Just love. Without just.
LOVE

West

I had been out for a while. 

Life sometimes lead us in different highways than we were supposed to be in. 

So I left my beloved Country, Mexico. 

Heading west, as west as it is possible, to some island, somewhere. 

I don't know how did I got here. I don't know why. 

-Tokyo? Asked the Lady at the airport looking at my luggage as if she wanted to imagine what would I take to Tokyo. 

That is what's written on the ticket- I tried to be funny just to release some stress. 

She gave me back the ticket saying: First gate to the left.

Didn't look again at me, no more curiosity, no more dreams. 

So I waited. For the plane, for walking in the bridge that leads to the stunning metal flying boat that would take me to Oriental earth. 

Just fourteen hours I said to myself. Just fourteen. 

Tired of the unsuccessful hours trying to sleep, non vegetarian insipid food and looking for some worthy movie to enjoy. 

I walked out from that plane while in my head reminded the phrase in that English classy accent: "Remember, remember!  

    The fifth of November, 
    The Gunpowder treason and plot; 
    I know of no reason 
    Why the Gunpowder treason 

    Should ever be forgot!"

I saw the day pass and the sun was hidden behind clouds and small drops. 

I felt as the day before a big party with a hangover of memories. And the big city was there, waiting for me. 

Build for the tiny ants to work and build a big refuge for the future. 

We are living the future now! 

Alan Rickman

The man.

Have you ever met someone that when are around she or he is magic?

The rarity of an empty feeling inside is mixed with the bitterness of missing.

A man has died and he is worth to be remembered.

Death has its own language and I do not plan here to decipher it, not even try.
But if there is something from him still alive; lets let it boil , let it surround us between mountains and dreams.
Sadness does not leave , even if it is just a romantic idea of ours.

I fill my being with this inspiration, but inspiration to live life. Not to be mirrored in an inertia that seeks the art and not find it.

He is still alive in his voice, exquisite English . Beautiful secret with harlequin taciturn mask. For giving names to new allegories and symbols blurred between poetry and forehands.

But is his mind which will make us live in the moment, drunkennes , fortune and defeat.

Thanks to Christopher Raid.
You are still alive Alan Rickman
No more foreplay.
Enjoy to tears.

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The Seed Of Quetzalcoatl Part 3

Part 3

When I was in front of the seed, it was just a simple seed, as simple as any seed. No matter how much I tried, I could not find any I expected. But I remembered your image.

Your hair as feathers, your skin as a snake skin, your eyes of a goddess. I realized then you were the real seed of Quetzalcoatl, and that had been everything about, the closest to him I could be was you. I ran desperate down the mountain, my steps were doubtful between hundreds of snails, and the roots of the trees that were stairs became obstacles. The mameyes did not feed me anymore and I understand myself lost in a moisture and frightening abundance. The birds shouted laughing. I got to the place I left you, and found only feathers and squama from a struggle against the rocks.

I walked aimlessly the 7 days I needed to return, confident that my mistake was about to cost me my life, with the understanding that if I had not left your arms I would never understand what I had in front of me. And I noticed the stupidity of leaving away for the understanding abandoning of the wonder of feeling.

One day away of staying forever in that place I stopped walking. I sat under a tree and watched my last day on this world, now as the first in another.

I forgot everything and spent the whole day with crossed feet until it rained. The cold waterdrops washed my spirit and my guilt, preparing me to accept death.

I opened my eyes and saw a shape moving. Dalia was walking as lost. I ran to her, I wanted to apologize and hold her forever. When I approached I noticed that her steps were uncertain, slow and she walked as wounded.

-My dear -I whispered holding her in my arms.

She looked at me scared. And did not give her arms to the embrace.

-Who are you? -She asked pushing me aside.

I saw her wounds in the legs, and understand it all. I had you again you, but you did not know who I was and would never remember.

The blood from your legs had a bright orange and some spirals of that cursed plant, the one the tlatoani told me to be aware of, the leaf of forgiveness was still in your skin, but it will never give you back your memories.

I tried to make you to remember but it was useless.

All you seemed to remember was the way back, It was like a muscle memory, because your face showed you did not know where would you get.

We leave the jungle and were greeted with applauses and hugs, but soon they realized that Dalia was not herself anymore.

In the last fire in which I cook my return to wherever I came from, boils the recipe to heal the pain from poison of oblivion. And the fire burns the promises of eternal love that we made.

But now the promises burn to ashes in the same fire I am using to heal you. And every hand I use to heal you is a new wound to me.

Now that we're together I feel all we lived as big as if it had been eternal, as you wanted it. I wish I had stayed that night, I wish I could go to the past and change my decision. All I can do now is carry on my back my mistake and your past, the few I knew from your lips.