somewhat personal
January 11, 2025
A Xmas tree
I am writing again. It’s hard, but for the first time in a long time, it is not painful. The texts are primarily exercises to unlock a deeper feeling that I am not able to let go of. These are some rough translations into English.
1
A xmas tree. You arrived on a not-very-cold day in December. You were already dead, but you didn’t know it. We water you. We wrapped you up with love. We covered you with lights, and we gave you stories to tell, stories of vaginas and clitoris, angels and stars, prawns and cats. You made our days better, more beautiful. But you were already dead. Water, you asked without asking. And your leaves fell when we touched you. You lost stars. And where once there was strenght, now there was sadness. And we didnt tell you, but you were already dead. You left a day in January between 12 and 1. You became dust. Now you are park.
2 This lung is broken. Please get it changed. It broke two years ago. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. It can’t handle 14 steps. You dont breath correctly, I was told, it is not broken. But it doesn’t work. Sometimes it stops and looks at me, in surprise. I am even more surprised to find my lung staring at me. I would smoke a cigarette, my lung says. I wouldn’t, I replied, I would exchange you for another one. I would not, he says. And so we spend our time. Sometimes a staircase is an entire world. A world of 14 steps.
Un xmas tree. Llegaste un día no muy frío de diciembre. Ya estabas muerto, pero tu no lo sabías. Te dimos agua, te abrigamos con amor. Te arropamos con luz, y te dimos historias que contar. Historias de vaginas y clítoris, de ángeles y estrellas, de gatos y gambas. Hiciste nuestro días mejores, mas bellos. Pero ya estabas muerto. Agua, decías sin decir. Y se te caían las hojas al tocarte. Perdiste estrellas. Y lo que era vigor se convirtió en tristeza. Y es que, no te lo dijimos, pero ya estabas muerto. Te fuiste un día de enero, entre las doce y la una. Te convertiste en polvo. Ahora eres parque.
Este pulmón esta roto. Me lo cambien. Se rompió hace dos años. A veces funciona, a veces no. Le cuesta subir 14 escalones. No respiras bien, me dijeron, no está roto. Pero no funciona. A veces se para y me mira, sorprendido. Más sorprendida estoy yo, al ver que mi pulmón me mira. Me fumaría un cigarro, me dice. Yo no. Te cambiaría por otro, le digo. Yo no, me responde. Y así vamos. A veces una escalera es un mundo. Un mundo de 14 escalones.
personal English Spanish