Tag: poetry
Living to Tell the Tale — By Gabriel García Márquez
Book Reviews
This is the story of Gabito, as he was called by his mother and best friends in life. It is a book of a fundamental narrative, that describes the writer’s memories between 1927 and 1950. It is also a story of personal and professional success. A success that was clearly and unequivocally elusive, for many years.
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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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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, bath 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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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.
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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