martes, 9 de diciembre de 2008

The eyes of madness

I hate remembrance
almost as much as I hate forgiveness.
Memories imply that people, things, are no longer there,
That they have the right to disappear,
that they are expected to.
It means we’re unable to understand the fragility of time,
its irregular beat,
the way it crawls up our skin
and imposes desire over oblivion,
loss over resurrection.

It’s unbearable to look into her eyes,
to hear her cracked-up voice
mumble words from the last century.
She seems lost and dirty, like an old child.

It’s unbearable to look into the eyes of madness,
to talk into its deafened ears.
She’s a person, but she’s something else...
the notion of a mother,
the suggestion of a woman,
the incapability to hold on and the unwillingness to let go.