Milan Kundera, El libro de los amores ridículos, 1968
My head a bit so far away from the ground, becoming a poissoned razorblade.
But we know what is this about, and have no clue of what’s this about.
I go bed, eyes wide open. Head spins round and yells. Then silence, then empty space. Hush, hush, it has no place.
Who can handle truth when it hides beneath this blue?
Every little thing shouts about, it glances even in dark. Denial is not my safe place, right now.
My head a bit so far away from the ground, becoming a poissoned razorblade.
But we know what is this about, and have no clue of what’s this about.
I go bed, eyes wide open. Head spins round and yells. Then silence, then empty space. Hush, hush, it has no place.
Who can handle truth when it hides beneath this blue?
Every little thing shouts about, it glances even in dark. Denial is not my safe place, right now.
A veces pienso que ya estuvo bueno de estar echada en mi cama imaginando cosas; que el sentido de la vida no está en soñar, sino en hacer, hacer, hacer, hacer, hacer, hacer, hacer. Pero entonces, descubro que mis sábanas son suavecitas y más calientes que el escritorio o el caballete… y toda esa ola de motivación se va a la chingada.
Cojeando ligeramente, huye del sol, con el rostro cubierto por una capucha que intenta ocultar —inútilmente— las quemaduras que deforman su rostro. Grita maldiciones junto a su gato negro, tuerto, malo, venenoso. Los dos de mirada agria, los dos de cabellos negros.
Hear me in my darkness,
please wait for me, I’ll find the way.
I promise, I shall resist the tides,
until I’m finally united with you again…
