TRAVELING THROUGH TIME ... with them, or LOOKING FOR A LOST HEART (original text)

in Freewriters3 years ago

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I am a lover of melancholy, I have to admit it. I enjoy-suffer my memories, my past dreams, my desires filed in lost drawers of my soul. I nourish myself, I feed on them like a remora, like a child drinking maternal colostrum, I can't help it.

It may seem masochistic, but as the Kodak commercial says: "to remember is to live again", and a while ago, reviewing old writings I came across letters, poems, confidences that I wrote to several women in my life, and I couldn't help but remember them with affection to some, with sadness to others.

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And there is nothing sadder than a dry heart, a heart that no matter how much you squeeze it, you do not get a tear or an emotion.

And it is that we can complain all we want about betrayals, bad loves, unrequited love and a long list of things that sometimes trample our hearts, ston us, put us on firing squad over and over again, but despite the pain, in those moments we have a living heart that beats like the devil's machine, and that feels with an intensity that more than a frustrated novelist would like.

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And I know that at that moment one does not realize it, because the pain can be so great, the suffering so immeasurable, that we lose perspective of things, but the truth is that the best gift someone can give us is to make our heart beat with that intensity that turns our stomachs, that locks our tongues and makes us shudder like leaves in the wind with the smallest, and sometimes even stupid, details of his/her being.

The strangest grimace seems beautiful to us, a shrill voice seems likeable and curious to us, and defects seem like curiosities that make the other person unique. Falling in love is a bit of a blind eye and a lot of idiot, but what a wonderful idiocy.

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I have not fallen in love for a long time, and look, I have tried, but just nothing. For a long time there has not been a look or a woman's body that moves the floor as before, and the truth is I do not know if the right one has not arrived or if I simply have an extremely dehydrated heart beyond all hope.

Every time it has been broken I have glued it slowly, carefully, with bits of women's clothing soaked in kisses, with band-aids of those with little figures, and with a lot of alcohol so that it won't infect me, preferably whiskey. I lull him to romantic songs every night for at least a week and take him out for a walk whenever he gets sad so he doesn't drown in memories.

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Perhaps in one of those times I have dropped it without realizing it, and what I feel and hear is only an echo, the reverberation of its last heartbeat that bounces inside me as if trying to escape from this life so full of legs and so empty of affection, so full of moans and so devoid of whispers, so full of me and so absent from them, all of them.

Or maybe she is still there but is in a coma, waiting like Snow White for a kiss that will wake her up and promise her a happy ending, a "and they lived happily ever after."

I do not know, but in the meantime I will continue looking for her, sticking her image on the posts, offering as a reward the broken dreams that I still have and the illusions embalmed in alcohol that I still have, in one of those one day I receive a call that gives me light or darkness on her whereabouts, and I can meet her again, running in slow motion like in the movies until we meet, and then in full close up, hugging or slapping us and then crying together, wouldn't that be nice?


©bonzopoe, 2021.

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Thank you very much for reading this post and dedicating a moment of your time. Until next time and remember to leave a comment.


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