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Lagartijas y sus colas

Máscaras sueltas y carnavales.
Paisanos y techos de otro pueblo.
Momentos sin relaciones.
Qué arriba y qué abajo.
Primero, segundo y tercer momento.
Propuestas, grumos.
«Perfecto, le creo».
Batir. Trabajar. Constante.
¿Cómo llegamos? Olvidándonos de todo.





(Ninguna de estas palabras me pertenece, sino a un profe de la facu, a una tardenoche de no dejarnos ir, a una clase de insistencia y analogías metafóricamente morfológicas. Yo solo las anoté mientras se le caían de la boca.
Esto, señores, es una clase de morfología. Esto, es una partecita de estudiar arquitectura.)

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Entradas populares de este blog

Blur

  So I was walking that night, talking to myself. The air was thick around me I could almost touch it, the street was slippery wet, and there was nothing behind nor ahead of me and my whispering voice.   And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, mine stopped seeing clearly. I could not see the cracks underneath my feet and the lights floating above my head turned into big fluffy shiny clouds with no end. In fact, every thing I'd laid my eyes on had no end, no edge. The things in front of me just merged one into another, and I wasn't even capable of tell colors apart, because of the darkness falling all over me, because of the dim of the streetlights.   But I just kept walking. And talking to myself. And even thinking out loud that maybe it wasn't me the one with the problem, that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.   Maybe, and just maybe, it was the world around me that turned blurred, that lost all its boundaries, its edges. Maybe it was the universe itself...

at home

I close my eyes tightly and wish she's ok. Maybe the wind will tell her that I'm thinking of her and that I want her to be happy. Tell her too that I'm writing about her. Because of her, of course.

Anisóptera