fiction meditational

La cordura es una putada. Su propio nombre ya indica que necesita que la estés desatando.
No se yo si al final etimológicamente ponen a los cuerdos como ligados a algo, o sea atados.
Y locura? No viene de "locus" de lugar? Me hace pensar en el locus amoenus, un lugar ideal.

I checked definitions of locus:

1. A locality; a place.
2. A center or focus of great activity or intense concentration: "the cunning exploitation of loci of power; the insulation from normal American society" (Clifton Fadiman).
3. Mathematics The set or configuration of all points whose coordinates satisfy a single equation or one or more algebraic conditions.
4. The position that a given gene occupies on a chromosome.
[Latin.]

In my further research it turned that "loco" was adopted in Spanish from the Catalan aception "lloca", used for animals, mostly chicken or other domestic birds. The "lloca" birds are the birds which are loud and out of control.

In any case, really, to hell with cordura! let's untie...

see it come and go

I realize writings take place between coming and going.
I correct myself...
I realize my life takes place between coming and going.

the constant statement of temporarity goes in my case a bit like:

I am not staying long.

In the temporarity of our staying on the Pacha Mama the shakesperean obsession took over me.

Somebody is now gone. We sat on the table and somebody pulled out a few notes she once wrote. There they were, there she was with us on lunchtime.

I am now trying my very best to comprehend, and fill that space with all the memories, sensations or thoughts that go into an emptiness.

A morning unplanned epitaph. I just sat to write about something else, but you came in first...

You'd be amazed of all the things a person leaves behind, that cannot be counted, that cannot be read.
You'd be amazed how long we stay after our death.

la part més difícil

The hardest bit. And while not playing with the meaning, words play with me all the other way around.

The hardest bit of every morning is to know it is one more day and one day less.
That the same tiredness welcomes you in the morning, similar to the one you went to bed with and the one you will go to bed with again. It is a cyclical tiredness.

The sun is not quite up. No landscape to look at in the morning hours, no colors to see shaping up.
The morning silence will be broken by the succulent semi thick blubbling of the coffee coming up the espresso machine. Its delicious smell guiding my way out of the shower.

Sometimes I go to bed and I am already happy to wake up anticipating the coffee ritual, a ritual that has settled in the same way ever since I first arrived here. Not a bit has changed in that matter of all the things that change, that come and go. And while I cannot keep traditions, I am relieved to discover one that prevails.

I refreshed my throat with some gulps of beer last night. And all of the sudden I remembered I forgot something and I felt the need to go back home. Consciousness and mind games, my mind took over me all of the sudden. Forgetting made me feel down.

I realized I had forgotten something crucial and ran back to sink in my sheets. I couldn't forgive myself... I forgot to!