I wanted you to know
I love the way you laugh
I wanna hold you high and steal your pain away
I keep your photograph;
I know it serves me well
I wanna hold you high and steal your pain
http://youtu.be/hPC2Fp7IT7o
Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda
As it happens, I am tired of being a man.
As it happens, I go to the tailor and to the cinema
shriveled, impervious, like a swan made of felt
flowing on the waters of origin and ash.
The smell of the barber shop makes me sob.
I want a break from stone and wool.
I want to stop seeing institutions and gardens,
commodities, eyeglasses, elevators.
As it happens, I am tired of my feet and my nails,
my hair and my shadow.
As it happens, I am tired of being a man.
Nonetheless, it would be delicious
to frighten a notary with a fresh-cut lily,
or mortify a nun with a smack on the ear.
It would be lovely
to roam the streets with a green knife
yelling until I froze to death.
I do not want to go on like a root in the dark,
wavering, stretched out, shivering with a dream,
down, into the moist guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, consuming daily.
I do not want such misfortunes.
I do not want to continue rooting to the tomb,
alone underground with a cellar full of corpses
frozen solid, killing me with sorrow.
This is why Monday burns like gasoline
when I show up with my jailbird face,
and howls on its way like a wounded wheel
and takes hot-blooded steps into the night.
It pushes me to familiar corners, damp houses,
hospitals where the bones fly out the windows,
to cobbler shops that smell of vinegar,
terrible, cavernous streets.
There are sulfur-colored birds, and foul intestines
hanging over the doors of these houses,
false teeth misplaced in a cafeteria,
there are mirrors
that should be crying with shame and horror,
everywhere umbrellas, poisons, umbilical cords.
I walk calmly, with eyes, shoes,
rage and oblivion,
step through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards where washing hangs from the line:
underwear, towels, and shirts that weep
slow filthy tears.
As certain as the knowledge that seasons change, as true as rainfall in summer — my eyes are open: you never loved me.
You may have thought you did. I wanted to believe you did. Illusions are the heart’s candy.
It is only fall but it is winter in my heart.
Where he used to daydream …
I’m sorry. Please come back.
http://youtu.be/uG0qiVW-mdI
Message Personnel
Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m’aimes
Ne crois pas que tes souvenirs me gênent
Et cours, cours jusqu’à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver…
Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m’aimes
Ne le considère pas comme un problème
Et cours, cours jusqu’à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver
Si tu crois un jour que tu m’aimes
N’attends pas un jour, pas une semaine
Car tu ne sais pas où la vie t’emmène
Viens me retrouver
Si le dégoût de la vie vient en toi
Si la paresse de la vie
S’installe en toi
Pense à moi
Pense à moi.
“Do not be angry with the rain. It simply does not know how to fall upwards.” — Vladimir Nabokov (Taken with Instagram)
“And yet I love him. I love him so much and so dearly, that when I sometimes think my life may be but a weary one, I am proud of it and glad of it. I am proud and glad to suffer something for him, even though it is of no service to him, and he will never know of it or care for it.”
— Charles Dickens, “Our Mutual Friend”
“Her heart—is given him, with all its love and truth. She would joyfully die with him, or, better than that, die for him. She knows he has failings, but she thinks they have grown up through his being like one cast away, for the want of something to trust in, and care for, and think well of.”
— Charles Dickens, “Our Mutual Friend”