Something happened, Oliver. Something, after all. José Hierro said: "After all, everything has been nothing. "And something happened, Oliver, but I'm not sure what, or how, or even what we did not realize in time. Perhaps it was something to say:" Of course I love you "with vacant eyes thinking about the tickets the Fnac. Or maybe it was that completing the degree, prom and begin postgraduate studies. Or maybe sit in front of friends and casually comment, "Postmodernism ... this is the fault of postmodernism. "
Oliverio, something happened that now I write poetry is full of words like" shit "and" powder ", something happened that my poetry is not poetry or poems to control contests, but I write for me and above it, badly. Something happened that I became a cynic, the overnight, this resentment that works as a shield round, something happened that I stopped believing in Benedetti to rationalize my reading and interested in early in the semiotics and psychoanalysis, structuralism. Something happened that took years without hanging pictures on the cork of the room, I stopped studying journalism because I realized that my texts were not going to change the world. The text of one, after all, serve only to realize how it has been lodged in his own body, which is a hobby that just about everyone.
Now, Oliver, I can imagine some of my regular readers ( Lacasiopeaa , for example, I love you darling and I know that you will forgive me this post) raising his hands to his head and thinking, "What cable has been released to Aaron how can use a movie as good as "The dark side of the heart" to justify a post so blatantly perroflautil and demagogic?. " And they are right, Oliver, but let me confess that lately I is overcoming panic and solid foundation for my cynical reason, distance (a reason to actor- Brecht), turn to ashes and a nostalgia craze that deaf sweeping the streets of my utopia. Something happened, Oliver, I wanted to change the world and the world changed me from a wafer in the face, leaving only the film and theater to take shelter. What, Oliver, what to do with the shock of León de Aranoa what to do with the guitar tune of Manu Chao what to do with the insufferable voice of Paco Ibáñez ? What do you do with these castaways? How come again to madness when we already know are not useful to overcome in this ship? Who gives us back faith in the man who stole our politicians of all parties? Who gives us a truce, who Sabina brings us back to eighties, who can guarantee that we are not become a Ramoncín ? I eat
vertigo, Oliver, eat me vertigo. Something happened that one morning after a restless night of sleep, was myself.
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