MY FACE AND I
(2003)
ask me to describe, analyze me, make me a biography, a portrait ... and how? My face is the only one I've ever seen. And anyone can see but me. My body is the only one who see only pieces. How then could make a portrait of myself, I demand the portrait that just because your asking me to do? "Describe", you say, "we need to do it." And I do not know, not if I know, because I have not ever tried to make my eyes turn around and look at me. I touch my face, I'm sorry ... but I can not see the natural, every movement, all sequences of each of my actions. Have you thought? I've done it many times, I even think that often haunts me. One day, when he was still a child, I remember that I faced the mirror of a wardrobe with a mirror and threw me a long time looking, looking. I thought I saw that that was me, because I was not me, was there in the closet. I was that, and that was me. I was scared, really scared me, so I took the wooden horse and slammed into the wardrobe mirror. I, I left in pieces ... but not bleeding, was not broken. I touched, not stretching his hand toward her (me), but shrugging his arms into my (too?) -, And remained, it was whole, without a scratch even. It was the only soul he was scratched. I was not that, it was only a bloody glass had taken possession of my ways. I cried, I cried ... I cried a lot, "Mom, Mom, why I can not see my face?" I still without seeing it. The mirror still occasionally taking over my forms, but from that day, I know that this is front is not in any event, which ran after the first love and looked meek-eyed kitten. That's how that guy said he was looking, and the expression stuck in my mind as if it had entered into a cotton fair sweet, softly ..., impregnating it touches. But how are the eyes (my eyes) of gentle kitten? Him if he saw me, but I do not, never have seen my eyes, not even know me mirror the image they have when they look elsewhere than to themselves. Never know what face was when I ran in the rain with seventeen years in the body and first heartbreak in the bowels. She cried, cried so much I knew the rain salty. I leaned on the railing of the viaduct. I wanted to curl up and flip me from the bridge to the tarmac. Thank you, friend, for having followed the steps that day. That day I learned a new concept, although they knew the word: friendship. Hugged me, wiped my face, my friend. I saw compassion in the brightness of your eyes. What would reflect my own? I was sad, almost dead, he knew, but ... How wrinkled, stretched, stretched or shrunk ... my face to be seen to what it was? I, I I saw it. How can I be sure it reflects what I feel? And although they do reflect how do I? How are my movements when I run, I work, I am scared, I love, I pissed off at the wheel or paint a picture? Came the years of creation (I have left now) and I started painting like crazy. The ideas flowed in torrents and the brush looked bad to keep up: Emotions, of all kinds, but strong, always strong. What would have given me in those years! See me live, I say. In every keystroke, every surprise, every idea, thought by thought and implementation. And back again. Since you are judging me, I perceive, "Is that just going to describe how bad your life? "" I know what you think. I've seen you look so many times that reproach me ... I will listen. There is a picture on my nightstand. I kiss my children on the face and I smile. I know just the moment the shutter of a camera, a click within three lives, but I enjoy watching her. I come images of swings in the park, songs to the moon, the smell of freshly bathed baby ... more kisses, and seems to breathe the universe when in fact I know it's just a breath of life in some lives, but that I do not mind when I look and see the picture of my children. I am happy and full recreating that moment. That is the exception in my rule. I'm so good knowing that I was happy that time ... Everything is okay now, everything is fine, I have to be satisfied with my life, the picture tells me, and I feel fortunate ... Look, I'm sorry, I can not keep pretending to be happy because I'm not. For one thing I'm here right? I know that I see everything black in this mind that is stretched too much. I wanted to give another image of myself and have happy things, but ... Do what I say is not true? What is a picture on a life? Only a breath of air in a tornado, a second, a time when millions of times. Do you know how many seconds I've already lived? I have not bothered to count and record: 26,282,340. It is possible that the last digit is no longer correct. Do you understand now that I do not care much about the second one-click lived among many clicks? Moreover, is hurting me because I can not go back to it and the picture is another illusion like the moon of the closet. Before I said I liked looking at her, but I will tell you the truth, since I do not feel well have saved it in the drawer of the nightstand. It hurts me to see it. It was a happy moment, but I have not heard prolong it, that was then and now ... My children are gone, their lives are elsewhere. I feel lame and empty, it is also empty. Sometimes I go to study, I take the brush in his hands and put me in front of the stand where I have the pristine canvas for so long. Ideas flow I do not know how to begin, just want to rescue moments do not want to return, and those who prefer to ring in the shadows haunt me. Now what do you want it, that you speak of him, right? If you know! Please ask me something else. Hey, you want to tell you the latest film by Spielberg? Only two days ago I saw is very good and I have very recent, I can tell you ... Ah ... One, not, right? I do not go around the bush. But I repeat that this theme is already well know. Come on, do not force me. Ya! I have to be me describe it, it's good for me, of course! Well, as that: an exchange of glances, a rush, another, another one ..., closer, a little more and ... love as a fool! Then a child, then another with kisses and fights, tears and laughter. After jealousy, evidence later. And last goodbye. But do not ask me to describe a characteristic feature of the nuances of my face between one and another of the many feelings until it was forgotten. I do not know. I can not. How do you do? Could you? And now ... I know!, I'm here, scared, anxious, pureed so many emotions that I know how they feel but I will never be able to reflect them safe. Curin wounds, asking you to help me. This chair holding me in front of your table psychologist knows better than me which side I put my life when I tell you, or when I open my wallet to pay you another query ("session is said?). And as a therapy that makes me ask me a self portrait. How? Do not say it face the charge of giving reflects the soul? If you've only seen pictures of myself, if I've ever seen really do not know if my face is lying or mistaken. Or when he says he loves you, seem to hate you. You can tell the truth but I can never be able to tell. If I see when I look at you, tell me how you do it?
All © Angels Fernangómez rights (text and photo)
0 comments:
Post a Comment