Tantas agitaciones de estado y cambios de destino público, instrúyennos para que no confiemos demasiado en el nuestro. Tantos nombres, tantas victorias y conquistas sepultadas en el olvido hacen ridícula la esperanza de eternizar nuestro nombre por prender a diez arqueros o a un vigía al que sólo se le conoce por su caída. El orgullo y la soberbia de tantas pompas extranjeras, la hueca majestad de tantas cortes y grandezas, nos asegura y ayuda a nuestra vista a soportar el brillo de las nuestras sin guiñar los ojos. Tantos millares de hombres enterrados antes que nosotros, nos animan a no temer a ir al otro mundo a reunirnos con tan buena compañía. Y así con todo lo demás.


Michel de Montaigne, "De la educación de los hijos", contenido en Ensayos I.

Etiquetas: académico

And it came to me then that every plan Is a tiny prayer to father time. As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409 and I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I’ve already taken too much today. As each descending peak on the LCD took you a little farther away from me, away from me.

Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines, in a place where we only say goodbye, it stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds and I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all. And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself.

‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room, just nervous pacers bracing for bad news. And then the nurse comes ‘round and everyone lift their heads but I’m thinking of what Sarah said:
that love is watching someone die.

So who’s gonna watch you die? So who's gonna watch you die?

Death cab for cutie, Plans.

Etiquetas: la música me mata

[...] but after a while my mind began to wander, and eventually I fell into one of those long, pointless meditations that only seem to occur when you're driving alone in a car. In this case, if I remember correctly, it had to do with quantifying the ephemeral acts of daily life. How much time had I spent in the past forty years lacing up my shoes? How many doors had I opened and closed? How often had I sneezed? How many hours had I lost looking for objects I couldn't find? How many times had I stubbed my toe or banged my head or blinked away something that had crept into my eye? I found it to be a rather pleasant exercise, and I kept adding to the list as I sloshed my way through the darkness.

Paul Auster, The book of illusions.

Me miras desde el fondo de tu oscura profundidad, tu tímida obsesión, la certeza de tus sueños incumplidos. Noto el hilo de tus ojos atándose a los míos, siento mi pecho temblar, y a mis dedos tamborilear.

Tu párpado es una puerta corredera. Tus pestañas, las excusas que me guardas, las mentiras que te cuentas para no entregarme tu ojo entero. Tus cejas son las muchachas que te escoltan, las ganas de no perder la esperanza, la ilusión por mantenerla.

Atisbo una mínima expresión de ojeras quizá por el esfuerzo -vano- de querer ocultarme que me miras. Me miras, y es triste tu tentativa de esconderlo. Es triste y falsa, como la lágrima que te brota, fruto de la mano cruel e implacable que te golpea por admitir finalmente que me quieres.