It's getting harder to write.
It's hard even to write these lines because I'm making this effort of trying to put everything I'm carrying inside of myself into words, and I feel a storm in my lungs, I feel my blood like a hurricane, and yet, there are no words.
I'm going through a phase in which I consider it extremely important to be sincere with myself, and this has led me to many doubts.
It's been a long time since I wrote something that made my own skin shake when I knew I had found the right words. I guess it's been even longer since I last wrote something that made someone else's skin shake or that got to touch them behind their physical boundaries.
It's hard because I've been wondering what I am comunicating with this blog. Or what I am really comunicating on my daily routine. Or if anyone's actually listening and trying to accept or understand. Or if I am trying it myself.
I guess everything's been all a huge blur and I watched the days go by as if they belonged to someone else; and everything I have said or tried to write tasted weird in my mouth.
I found these on my dad's old photos, they were taken by him at some moment of the eighties and probably with a really cool camera. My dad would have been great if he had tried photography, I like to think my dad would have been great at anything he'd have tried (except cooking, ha) These make me specially happy because I like the thought of having my own version of them , and to think that my dad is trying to show me and my sisters his world (like the places he used to visit, or the things he enjoyed) provokes a inexplicably comforting feeling.
I guess memories keep us in touch with ourselves and the world when our own voices sound like another person talking.
This song is a poem.
we're setting fire to our insides for fun,
collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home
it was a flood that wrecked this...
... and you caused it