2004-10-09

And the weeping willow pulled me aside to say--

Alone at night--midnight. I have always thought that the evenings have numerous layers--the darkness amplifies that piercing silence. We hardly ever listen--truly listen--to the beating of our hearts. The motions send invisible waves through the air, exposing our secrets to the trees, moon-painted grass blades, and inconspicuous ground-pebbles that care to listen.

Winter is approaching, and I await with open arms for scented, crisp mornings. I have always found consolation in that particular season, as I take my solitary morning walks. I once asked myself the question: �what if trees could talk?�, indeed, I think one of those weeping willows would take me aside one morning and hand me the memories. It would say, �Libet, I have seen this...I have seen all the stages of your life...�

And I�ve also been asked what goes in my mind constantly--what are the thoughts that flow through my head at any one second. That is such a narrow question, which, cannot be answered. And what goes in my mind?

The sound of tires on wet pavement and me treading through rain puddles. I hear the chirping of birds in the far distance as I awake each morning, or the tolling of bells in a cathedral. Winter mornings when I wake up--surrounded by my clean, crisp sheets and my favorite essay, Beneficiaries of Catastrophe. The dusk falling over me like light silk...

Lorca said that the poet weeps on these silent, October evenings when feathers mysteriously fall from the sky--and yes, I weep on silent October evenings.

I�m only eighteen--a mere child...children are not supposed to cry on October evenings...

Everything is quite scattered--from the day we moved here from Cuba, to now. Always, I have been such a sensitive child...ten years later, recalling old feelings that suddenly sprung up from reading a passage of the midnight train. In fact, I can�t remember the entire poem...I just saw a boy at night, laying down and looking out the window to a rural landscape, and the night train in the far distance. Clouds of white smoke rose from the chimney, and one light illuminated the tracks.

And I think it goes much deeper than simply a midnight train--it�s the image of a countryside...where I belong. Of dirt roads and smoke rising from old men�s cigars. Of blue, scoured paint on shop walls, and distant mountains somewhere...

Creo qu� el coraz�n se me parte al recordar todas las veces qu� me h�n part�do el alma--no �s justo, d�go...vos nunca llore�s por m�. Vos nunca encontrara�s mi alma--profunda y ll�na de col�r. El col�r del dol�r es...t�n immenso.

Aveces quisi�ra sentarme, y gritar con agon�a--un grito blanco, para espresar--con pasi�n--lo que yo siento. Mald�to s�an! Quisiera estar sola en los brazos h�ndos de la oscuridad--abraz�ndome con un ab�smo de incertitud.

Y mald�to los que nuncan me dejan sola...

Los que incorrectamente ven una ilusi�n--una ment�ra...

Me duele solamente porque soy humana--siento, lloro, y como cualquier cosa vieja, me siento despreciada. Mi alma es como un objeto viejo--perdido y nost�lgica por lost dias anteriores de su juventud...me siento tan vieja por dentro.

La esperanza, y el amor son dos cosas--por lo menos yo lo se--qu� en realidad extr�ma, no ex�sten en este mundo fr�o.

Que nadie me �me...se lo advierto.

aeka at 10:00 p.m.