The thorn that I carry inside reopens and hurts with every movement, with every effort that my aching body tries to realize.
The wound is already so deep that sometimes it is about to touch that called soul. The soul, so subtle and so powerful which generates such energy that is capable of changing your world oy you can simply stop belonging to it. And your thorn, according to the motion I make, touches my soul, strikes it, its skin is so fine and sensitive, for, with a millimeter more depth of roze, my soul would break into a thousand pieces, Prick with the thorn of a beautiful rose, exploding at the same time that it dazzles by the beauty of the flower, and that makes the damage hurts a little less, although the result is is more.
My thorn is not beautiful, it is not sweet, I can not even smell it, maybe if it smells good and I face it enough so I can smell it, maybe that would numb the pain. But there is no smell, no color, no beauty, no aroma or force. There is nothing, and nothing hurts more than nothing. The absence of a whole or something. That emptiness breaks so sharply that no blessing nor magic potion can heal. The void is that, nothing, and where nothing is installed, nothing can grow there. My thorn is full of nothing, has emptied part of me, that’s why months ago that part of me left not to return.
I write this on a bus, full of people who travel, some with illusions, others, tired. A hostel is a good way to observe people, most of them alone, some not. Many happy, enthusiastic, not least. My foot, the destiny that makes my dreams can not be realized, but to win from me, has made me spend a lot of time in solitude and in the is more place, with a vibrant London around me, with a desire to walk by its gardens as the only objective of my journey, something so simple, that I could hardly realize. The first two days I decided not to think about pain, to pretend I did not exist, but this one has become stronger, to the point that the last three days have been impossible not to return after 10 minutes in the street, despite my effort, despite having tickets to a theater.
The emptiness as a malignant tumor spreads rapidly creating more empty, to the point that you stop being a person, you stop being something, to become nothing. And the little bit that remains of me tried to enjoy the musical the phantom of the opera. Who was going to tell me. I was the ghost, I felt the ghost, looking for love as the only element that could make sense to his life. I am the ghost. A ghost of mine, deformed, neglected, physically abandoned by not feeling “somebody”. Just something in the wrong place.
For two days I saw, I walked aimlessly but slowly, I discovered, I felt myself. Now minute by minute I stop feeling, and the thorn of your emptiness is doing the rest, breaking the little left of my soul. By the time he returns to Spain, all that is left is loose pieces, like the balloon that blows so hard, it exploded.
Less than a month ago, I think I was suffering from overdoses and autolytic ideas. In a month in London. Let them tell me that I am not brave, that I do not fight. But it does not matter, happiness, love, affection, that would fill my voids, flees from me.
Más En español
Seguir leyendo London and the phantom of the opera