tijuana dominguera party

domingo con ese toque bizarro que le da el cansancio acumulado y el desvelo extremo, pero domingo muy domingo, nada menos. exhaltado, si algo, por este sabor a victoria de poder no hacer nada más que contemplar todas las horas del día, lo que considero un privilegio y mi actividad favorita, a la que me entregué en cuerpo y alma hasta que el cuerpo y el alma me pidieron otra cosa.

estaba en eso de nostalgiar - sí, nostalgiar - todo aquello que implicaba y declaraba mi no hacer por las sensaciones que me ha traído este domingo, sopesando, saboreando las diferencias entre entonces y ahora, cuando llega esto, al pedo: 

You sit in a chair, touched by nothing, feeling

the old self become the older self, imagining

only the patience of water, the boredom of stone.

You think that silence is the extra page,

you think that nothing is good or bad, not even

the darkness that fills the house while you sit watching

it happen. You’ve seen it happen before. Your friends

move past the window, their faces soiled with regret.

You want to wave but cannot raise your hand.

You sit in a chair. You turn to the nightshade spreading

a poisonous net around the house. You taste

the honey of absence. It is the same wherever

you are, the same if the voice rots before

the body, or the body rots before the voice.

You know that desire leads only to sorrow, that sorrow

leads to achievement which leads to emptiness.

You know that this is different, that this

is the celebration, the only celebration,

that by giving yourself over to nothing,

you shall be healed. You know there is joy in feeling

your lungs prepare themselves for an ashen future,

so you wait, you stare and you wait, and the dust settles

and the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness.

Mark Strand, “In Celebration”