Cadáver Exquisito Sin Continuidad

"¿Has adivinado y pintado este recuerdo mío o has pintado el recuerdo de muchos seres como vos y yo?

Fragmento de una carta de María a Juan Pablo - El Túnel

Púrpura.

Camino, mirar, avanzar lento.

Close to you, drawing you, painting the wall, renaming the substances of the planet.

Ocean, river, waterfall, lake.

Fountain of blood in the shape of a girl.

Staring at you, listening, awakening up, slippery soul.

Púrpura.

No estar, cambiar, caminar, parar, aprender a conocerlo todo.

No.

Niña. muñeca de trapo, alma de cristal que se rompe con el viento : Arbol creciendo en mis entrañas, árbol sosteniéndose por sí mismo a pesar de mis raíces fragmentadas.

La aridez del paisaje.

Show me your palms, play with my hands.

Unspeakeable uncertainty.

Lonely nights made of over sensitivity in vain.

Nights of careers against the time.

Death of the seconds in my mouth.

Death of my mouth and my sounds.

Death of the music that feeds the world.

Replacing these missing elements, helping me, help me once again.

Again, again, again.

Again I refuse to be falling,

Again my entire universe of maroon bricks is falling and is forcing me to fall down with him, but I hope I can sustain, I know that, for now, I'll can sustain myself against the void.

I want to be safe, I want to feel it again, at least for a little moment.

Once again that the soil made of orange blossom is by my side, just that the ivory caresses save me instantaneously.

And then, the sweet return.

Camino hecho, pensado, dibujado y ahora revisado por la niña que camina sobre el verde del mundo.

Fountain of blood.

Púrpura.

Corre, no mires, sólo corre y alcanza a empezar, a salir, a llegar, a cavar, a caer.

Digging that hole, forgetting the sun, don't sit down: it's time to dig another one.

Get used to leave because you have been left.

You want to speak, to continue, to get up, to walk once again, but your worried mind wants to stop saying it, stop speaking, stop thinking, stop screaming, stop describing, stop writing this shape of a girl.

Now, learning to bleed in silence.

Now, you know it's not up to anybody.

A voice : You can decide what you give but it's not up to you what you get given.

Right. No.

Now, you know you can ~and you must~ undo, and after this, you must draw above this lost girl, above her old papers blackened by the unbreakable shouts of all these years.