has come a time in my life when I am on the threshold between what I was and what I will also be read as "go mad" ... because this threshold the surrealist paintings of Dali and his own insanity, are the everyday. Next to the beauty and melancholy, they survive investments, paradoxes, contradictions and the possibility of getting lost forever in the maw of madness. I will put Sylvia Plath some verses and poems, to make a fabric half of my half-life, if someone knew of madness, love and death, she is.
Dialogue between a spectrum and a priest (fragment)
"Go, go," said Father Shawn inpaciente,
"I do not want that stuff fool me go
About tormenting flames golden harps, but tell me
What happened to true at the end of your life, what kind of epilogue
He put God to your life. "Both costs you
Meeting the demand for this curious old fool? "
"In life, love gnawed (" In life, love gnawed my skin
my flesh to the bone, To this white bone;
And as then made, it is now: What did Then love, love does now:
worm through without ceasing. "gnaws me through".)
Here goes, translated by Xoán Abeleira:
Miss Drake sets out to dinner
As is shower
In these elaborate rituals
that mitigate malice
From the table and knotty corner chair,
Newcomer
Wears purple
treads carefully Its secret combinations
eggshells and fragile hummingbirds,
Tiptoe, pale as a mouse,
between Damascene roses
That gradually opening its hundred petals are hairy
to devour it and drag it into
The design of the carpet.
With its lively look askance raised bird
can see in the nick of time
The dangerous spines that sprout in the parquet strips
zarzaleño and disrupt their plan;
Across the air full of ambushes,
Blinding because of the dazzling pieces
broken glass
She moves slowly, cautious breath,
tips and Sorting fangs,
Until, getting sideways,
Lift one foot after another
tapped calmly in the atmosphere, suffocating
the dining room of patients.
In my case madness and love are the same. I eat away the same way, I feed on the same measure. Without one, the other also goes. When she returns, I know he has returned. Love and madness, insanity and death, all living together in the perpetual transformation and change, joy and torment, a body that sometimes you just want to love and other rest lying, dying it is not life, but pure insanity.
What is the reality for a / a lunatic? If the lies are inside herself and the truth is distorted by the absence of references? Is there an absolute truth in this world made of dreams lighting?
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