How Elusive Love Could Be

My Stories

How elusive love could be. It goes from here to there, from there to here, from here to there. You can sit and see it come and scape back again like simple spectators on a tennis match. Or you could go after it, tumbling down and knocking others down, like if it were a rugby game. In any case it would be difficult to catch.

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My New Friends

My Stories

I don’t think I have new followers but new found friends. I have only felt gratitude since I started to dedicate this account to what I love most, reading and writing. That is so when I changed my content, my interest of following big companies also changed, as they would never mind for what I think and feel. And now this blog is full with a nice community of old friends, those who have always been there, because they know me and support me, and the new friends, those whom just have arrived, and have sent a message, to tell me with lovely words, that they can also support me, even when they have never met me. And we talk sometimes, about life, family, and our revolting emotions. And I feel that I could touch their hand right through my computer, and I could offer them a coffee. And I feel that now my virtual reality is as close as my own reality. Thanks to my new friends for being here. Thanks to my old friends because I know you will always be here. Luz

Mothers and Winter are Not Compatible

My Stories

8:30 am today, I had only five minutes to get to school that is only a few meters away. They are insuperable meters when you have to feed, bathe and dress three young children. Then the counting starts before putting them on, six gloves, three wool hats, three scarves, six socks. Each of them tiny and elusive, always forgotten in every corner of the house.

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Flaws

My Stories

I try to control my mind. Because let’s not lie to each other, it dominates me, with her steel chains, with those thick links that cannot be separated. Living in the past is my addiction, I like to walk in those memories that revive with all the nostalgia my childhood, school, university, family, friends.

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Romance Languages

My Stories

Why is it that the romance languages are so agreeable? Because they sound like a singing melody compared with other languages that could sound dry as an autumn leaf. It is the vocals, the ones we found so abundantly in romance tongues, as if they were fruits swimming in a colourful salad. They fill every word up to the top, by softening the rudeness and aggressiveness of the consonants. Romance languages have dignity. They would never allow two consonants in a word without a vocal guiding them, telling them what to do. And this is how all the brutal force gets to be mitigated by this syrup that intoxicate of those who listen to it. 

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Paris d’Amour

My Stories

It was him who gave me this book. Paris. He knows how I feel about Her. Looking at his eyes I sadly understood that this gift was only a gentle gesture towards that love that he will never support. I understood that eventually I would have to choose between him and Her. Irreconcilable differences keep them apart from one another. He thinks She is dirty, dangerous and without great beauty. Overrated and a thief, She abuses the innocents who come to Her looking to fulfil a dream and She pays them back with a treason. So unpleasant She is, that not even the ocean would like to be next to Her.

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Balls of Ego and Paper

My Stories

And the year went by. And it left us with our hair electrified from so much lockdown, economic fatality and fear of dying. And it told us, that we are not the gods we thought we were, but only balls made of ego and paper, that at the slightest wind may fall out. And before it left, it combed us, very smoothly, with a  brush of eclipses, solstices and planetary marriages. And it told us all, stop crying, that nothing will end, that it all begins again. A new year, new life, new hope, will arrive. And  yet here we have, a new crystal ball in our hands, waiting to see what you wish to ask, waiting perhaps that you think about Her, a little bit more than those odd time of the past.

We Should All Be Writers

It is because we are scared of writing that only the other voices are being heard. The bigots, the racists, the nationalists, the misogynists, the extreme-right and the extreme-left. They are not scared to talk, they are not scare to write. The fight for equality, in all levels, is also a fight to be taken with a pen and a paper. I know by experience that writing a book, an essay, a page, or even a post is scary to say the least. Hello fears. All of them come together to tell us the thousand ways in which we could fail. There are many risks. People might not like what we write, or how we write it. Maybe they are not interested in our subjects, or worse, we could offend a close one because of the things we write. But the voices of the moderate have to be amplified. I truly believe that people are eager to read new ideas, especially the progressive ones and the romantic ones. Those that give us hope for the future. To anyone who writes I tell you this. Keep fighting. Keep writing. Your writing is important. To us. To everyone.

The Reflect of the Candle on my Wall

Fiction Story

He appeared like a ghost would at my bedroom’s door. It was him, yes, with his face riddle with wrinkles, with his skin of a colour dark caramel, tired of waking up at dawn to work on the little piece of land that he has owned forever. It was him, there was no doubt, because we were still talking about that same piece of land that Eulalio said, back when we were together, that it would be mine, that it would be for both of us. He is making that promise again, fifty years later, and again, as it was before, it is my only hope for scape.

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Why don’t you do it instead?

A late but still relevant answer to this article

And why don’t you do it instead?

Why don’t you cook a meal for me,

Knowing that I haven’t eaten in a whole day?

Because, for the sake of the family,

I always forget about myself.

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