The tall grass


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She was laying there, hidden in the tall grass, looking up to the sky. It was almost the end of the summer, the earth was still warm, the grass changing to golden. The fresh breeze moved it around her like she was being caressed by a familiar hand. The scent of the dry hay bringing back memories of her childhoo: those summers she used to help her grandfather to cut the grass for the cattle. That was a long long time ago. She was happy then, she had the whole world to discover. She wished she could go back the. When everything was new and exciting. Life wasn’t so appealing anymore. Only from time to time something would happen, something thrilling and unexpected; something she would keep in her heart as a treasure to bring some light during the darkest moments. 

Her back on the ground, her arms along her still body feeling the sun on her skin. She smiled when she saw the white cloud across the sky. It looked like a little bird, a sparrow… a robin maybe? It seemed to be so free, flying far away from there. No limits or obstacles could stop its journey. She felt somehow jealous. She wondered how would it feel to be that free. No bonds, no chains. Those invisible chains we create to shackle ourselves. Those mighty chains that cannot be destroy or unfastened by anyone but ourselves. But most of us are too scared to even try because what if we manage to brake the ties? What if we free ourselves? What if we really become architects of our own fate? 

The cloud changed its form slowly until it disappeared completely into the bright blue the same way her momentary hopes of a bright future disappeared into the darkness of her gloomy thoughts. So she stayed there, still, hidden in the tall grass making the most of it while it was still sunny for much more grey days were about to come. 


I am not


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I guess I wasn’t meant for this world, for this life. I have got a far too idealistic view of what life should be. I have got no ambition. I don’t know what success mean and, what is more, I don’t want to. I am not made to fulfill this world expectations. What is important for them is meaningless for me; and what’s important for me, it’s just a nonsense for them. I am not who they think I am. I am expected to do things I cannot do, to think things I cannot think, to feel things I cannot feel. I am not made to be the person they want me to be. It doesn’t matter where they put me because I’ll be always out of place. And I get tired, tired of trying to make them understand, tired of fighting them back. I am so very tired.  I am not made of stainless steel, all shinny and indestructible. I don’t even know what I am made of, but I do know that it is messy, heavy and light at the same time, simple and unsophisticated, solid and resistant. But also I can be torn apart when you least expect it, with the most insignificant of blows.

I am sorry to disappoint but I cannot help being how I am.



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She was too normal to be noticed, and too different to be loved. Always alone in the middle of the crowd, always in company of her inner self. Wandering around the streets of the big city, always with a clear and precise destination in her mind. Her head up defying the world but hiding from the reality that surrounded her behind a face with a visage it wasn’t hers; looking without seeing; smiling without joy; crying without tears. She lived in a world she had created for herself for she didn’t like the real one; but, at the same time, she longed to be able to live in it, to be part of it. She was capable of adapt to almost everything and yet she seemed to be always out of place. Those around her seemed to know her, to guess what she thought, even how she felt; but none of them understood her. Was it her fault or their fault? Did it make any difference at all? Time went by, life ran its course, but she felt that the world spun more and more slowly, that time didn’t go forward but twisted around itself into an endless loop in which every day was the same, except for one thing: her soul was a bit smaller every day, her heart was a bit drier, more fragile, like a leaf at the end of the autumn, when it gets so dry that the softest breeze can tear it apart. She was just waiting for that windy day.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Era demasiado normal para que la tuvieran en cuenta, y demasiado diferente para ser amada. Siempre sola en mitad de la muchedumbre, siempre en compañía de su verdadero yo. Deambulando por las calles de la gran ciudad siempre con un destino claro y preciso. Con la cabeza alta, desafiando al mundo pero escondiéndose de la realidad que la rodeaba tras una cara con un rostro que no era el suyo, mirando sin ver, sonriendo sin alegría, llorando sin lágrimas. Vivía en un mundo que había creado para sí misma porque el de verdad no le gustaba, y al mismo tiempo anhelaba ser capaz de vivir en él, formar parte de él. Era capaz de adaptarse a casi todo y aún así siempre parecía estar fuera de lugar. Los que la rodeaban parecían conocerla, saber lo que pensaba e incluso cómo se sentía, pero nadie la comprendía. ¿Era culpa de ella o de los demás?¿Acaso suponía alguna diferencia? El tiempo pasaba, la vida seguía su curso, pero ella sentía que el mundo giraba cada vez mas despacio, que el tiempo ya no avanzaba sino que se retorcía sobre sí mismo en un bucle sin fin en el que todos los días era iguales, excepto por una cosa: su alma cada día era un poco más pequeña, su corazón cada día un poco más seco, más frágil, como una hoja al final del otoño cuando hasta la más suave de las brisas s capaz de desgarrarla en pedazos. Sólo estaba esperando a ese día de viento.

What difference does it makes?


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Is today different from the Wednesday one week ago? I don’t think so. The weather might be different, the things you are doing might be slightly different, but, the whole thing, the important thing, is the same. You are the same. So, why is everybody so crazy about a new year? New year resolutions are one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard about. Nobody keeps them. Eat better, do more exercise, work less, give up smoking, healthier lifestyle… and what for? To go through other 356 days in order to reach a new year so you can make more resolutions you won’t keep? Good luck, then! I’m busy enough trying to remember to write down the date right (I am still writing 2014 in every single paper). And I hate when people ask me about it. I flatly refuse to make a resolution for this or any other new year. Doesn’t that sound like a resolution itself? Anyway, if I made one, it would be to stop trying to understand what is in people’s heads. But I know I wouldn’t keep it since solving mysteries is part of my nature and it remains a mystery to me how people can behave they way they do. Their lack of responsability and common sense (which, apparently, is the less common of all senses), their disinterest and carelessness just shocks me so very much that, in some way, it intrigues me! You see? Nothing has changed from last year: I am still a naive confused woman and people are still mindless. So, let’s toast for this fake new year and all the changes that won’t happen!

Happy New Year to you all!

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

¿Es hoy diferente al miércoles de hace una semana? No lo creo. Puede que el tiempo sea diferente, que las cosas que estés haciendo sean ligeramente diferentes, pero en general, en lo que de verdad importa, es lo mismo. Tú eres el mismo. Así que, ¿por qué se vuelve loco todo el mundo con el nuevo año? Los propósito de año nuevo son la cosa más ridícula que he oído en mi vida. Nadie los cumple. Comer mejor, hacer más ejercicio, trabajar menos, dejar de fumar, una vida más saludable… ¿Y para qué? ¿Para poder vivir otros 365 días y llegar al nuevo año para poder hacerte más propósitos que no vas a cumplir? Buena suerte con eso. Yo tengo bastante con intentar recordar escribir la fecha correctamente (sigo poniendo 2014 en todas partes). Y odio que la gente me lo pregunte. Me niego rotundamente a hacerme ningún propósito para este o cualquier otro año nuevo. ¿No suena eso a un propósito en sí mismo? Da igual. Y en el caso de que me hiciera uno, sería el de dejar de intentar entender qué le pasa a la gente por la cabeza. Pero sé que no lo cumpliría porque resolver misterios es parte de mi naturaleza, y para mí sigue siendo un misterio cómo la gente puede comportarse de la forma en que lo hace. Su falta de responsabilidad y sentido común (que, aparentemente, es el menos común de los sentidos), su desinterés y despreocupación me impacta tantísimo que, de cierta forma, me intriga. ¿Lo veis? Nada ha cambiado desde el año pasado: yo sigo siendo una ingenua y confusa mujer y a la gente le da todo  igual. Así que, vamos a brindar por este falso año nuevo y todos los cambios que no ocurrirán.

¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

The Beast / La Bestia


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 May the morning come soon, may the sun rise up quickly. Because I am afraid. I am scared of the darkness looming over me tonight. I am terrified of the monster I know is waiting crouched down for the last rays of light to disappear. Hidden in the blackness, it patiently waits for the shadows to grow and grow until they cover everything. It is a cruel, ruthless, big and strong beast, capable to destroy everything in its way. Its claws are long and sharp as blades that pierce the flesh without any effort, the prey almost doesn’t notice it until is too late, until they have already reached the heart and then, slowly, almost with delicacy, cause a fatal wound so it bleeds little by little, so life leaks from every crack like the time slips through your fingers unnoticed, drop by drop, second by second. Its jaws  are powerful as pliers, enclosing your neck, tighter and tighter, impeding you from breathing, taken your breath away until your chest is burning and the fight for air is so painful that it’s easier to give up. Its saliva is as thick and black as bitumen. It seeps through every chink to get to the deepest part of your blood, your mind, your inner self. It poisons everything, taints even the last drop, the last cell of your body. And you are not you anymore.

 That is why I want the morning to come soon, the sun to rise up quickly. Because I don’t want it to caught me, I don’t want to fall prey of it. I know it is stalking me, I can feel it.

 They tell me to not be afraid, that monsters don’t exist, they are only tales. But I know it’s not true, I know the beast exists. Because I have seen it, I have seen it with my own eyes, face to face. I know it is real because I am that beast.

 May the morning come soon, may the sun rise up quickly. Because I am scared of myself.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

 Que llegue pronto la mañana, que salga pronto el sol. Porque tengo miedo. Tengo miedo de la oscuridad que se cierne sobre mí esta noche. Me aterra el monstruo que sé que espera agazapado a que los últimos rayos de luz desaparezcan. Escondido entre las tinieblas espera paciente a que las sombras crezcan y crezcan hasta ocuparlo todo. Es una bestia cruel, despiadada, grande y fuerte, capaz de destrozarlo todo a su paso. Tiene garras largas y afiladas como cuchillas que penetran en la carne sin esfuerzo, casi sin que la presa lo note hasta que ya es demasiado tarde, hasta que casi han llegado a su corazón, y entonces, despacio, casi con mimo, lo hieren de muerte, para que se desangre poco a poco, para que la vida se escape por sus grietas como se escapa el tiempo entre nuestras manos casi inadvertido, gota a gota, segundo a segundo. Sus fauces, poderosas como tenazas que rodean tu garganta, apretando y apretando, impidiéndote respirar, robándote el aliento hasta que el pecho te arde, y la lucha por respirar es tan dolorosa que es más fácil darse por vencido. Su saliva es espesa y negra como el alquitrán. Se cuela por cada resquicio que encuentra para introducirse hasta lo más profundo de tu sangre, de tu mente, de tu ser. Y lo envenena todo, corrompe hasta la última gota, hasta la última célula de tu cuerpo. Y tú ya no eres tú.

 Por eso quiero que llegue pronto la mañana, que salga pronto el sol. Porque no quiero que me atrape, no quiero que la bestia haga presa de mí. Sé que está acechándome, puedo sentirla.

 Me dicen que no tenga miedo, que los monstruos no existen, que sólo son cuentos. Pero yo sé que no es verdad, yo sé que la bestia existe. Porque yo la he visto, la he visto con mis propios ojos, frente a frente. Sé que es real porque esa bestia soy yo.

 Que llegue pronto la mañana, que salga pronto el sol. Porque tengo miedo de mí.



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Here I am, sitting in the shadows, trying to keep myself hidden. You cannot see me, but I do. I cannot hear you but I look at you while you speak. The warmth of your words crashing into the cold morning breeze and turning into a light white cloud that, dancing around your head, slowly vanishes into the air. Oh, if I could just breathe in that tiny little part of you, to be closer to you. But I am a coward, I don’t dare to say how I feel. So I stay here in the shadows, hoping you will notice, fearing you will notice.

Out Of Place


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 I once met a girl that didn’t look like the others, especially when she was among others. She seemed to be there but, at the same time, she looked like she was far away. People would think about her as shy, sometimes even distant for she usually stayed quiet, listening to what others had to say, smiling from time to time or nodding when she agreed, but she rarely spoke when there were more than two or three people around. If she was just with you, she was a little more different, not in her character, but, apparently, she felt more like talking. And when she did it, you discovered that she was quite smart, and funny, and she knew lots of facts that weren’t useful at all for your daily life but, that were interesting anyway. However, when surrounded by people, she seemed to slowly vanish among them, trying to become unnoticed. Sometimes, using that ability of disappearing in plain sight, she would actually escape from the room, trying to find a quieter place, a hidden space where she could stay for a while, away from the noise. Most of the people thought that was weird but she really needed it. In one of those occasion in which I found her alone, I asked her about it and she told me that she just felt out of place most of the time. I told her that everybody around seemed to like her and enjoy her company but she replied that it was something that she really couldn’t help, that it was beyond her control, feeling she didn’t belong there, she didn’t fit. “I guess that when you don’t feel comfortable with yourself, there is no way you can feel comfortable with others”.

Libertine till I die


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This Saturday, one of my youth dreams became true; one of those I though it was only a chimera because ten years is a long time. I’m talking about seeing The Libertines in concert. You can read my post about the concert itself in “Mind The Gap” but what I wanted to write about here is my feelings about people reactions after the concert, either people I don’t know that give their opinion in the social networks (mostly being quite disrespectful) or people I know that seem surprised (even disapproving) when I tell them I was there.

About the concert, if you have read my post or some news, you already know that it was a kind of chaos because a mix of the behaviour of the crowd and the most than disappointing organization. But the funny thing is that I’ve been reading comments about it from people that weren’t even there but, somehow, they have a wonderful and very well documented opinion of what happened, and freely blame the band for it. How can you blame a band (this one or any other) for the behaviour of the crowd that attend to their concerts? Especially in this kind of festivals with dozens of bands in a day, with liters of alcohol (supplied for the organization itself) being drunk from 12 in the afternoon, people of all kind and conditions… you know that things can go (and usually will go) wild. But why to blame the artist/s (if they don’t clearly support and encourage that behaviour) for it? In this case, the band was more than professional and tried to help the security staff to calm down the audience, stopping their performance even three times (can you imagine how annoying can that be for a band trying to make a remarkable comeback?) to ask the crowd to take it easy. But those “I_have_an_opinion_for_everything” blame the band and the whole crowd as well, pointing at the fans as drinkers, nutters, “druggies” and savages. I’m a huge fan of this band and I can assure you that I’m nothing of that: I didn’t even drink a drop of alcohol (I never do at concerts since I want to remember every single moment of them); and many of the people around me (some teenagers under 14 with their parents, young couples, groups of friends drinking just soft drinks…) were there trying to have a good time and enjoy one of their favourites band, probably for the first time. Because these people are so closed-minded that they just assume that as a fan of their music, you have the same life the artist you like has. So, that’s mean that if I like Rufus Wainwright I am gay (I like him, but I’m not); if I like The Smiths, I am an extremist vegetarian (I love them but I love meat as well, shame on me!); if I love Virginia Woolf’s books, I approve and support suicide; and if I love The Libertines I am an alcoholic and drug-addict. Well, let me explain you that being a fan of their music and their work doesn’t mean that I encourage, not even approve, their style of life. On the contrary, and always keeping in mind that everyone is free to do with their own lives as they please, I’m always scared of the possibility of such a talent being spoiled and destroyed by the use and abuse of alcohol and drugs (as it has happened before in the history of arts). And it’s really upsetting when you have to justify yourself because you are being judged for others’ behaviours, not even for your own actions.

I would like to ask people to be respectful with others’ likings, especially when they’re the opposite to yours, but I know it’s not going to happen, more now than you can spread your opinion freely and hidden behind a nickname on the social networks.

Anyway, I will continue to claim my love for this band and to defend this feeling against those who despise me for it, because “Libertine till I die, Libertine till I die, I know I am, I’m sure I am”.

The Libertines

That summer / Aquel verano


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It’s funny how music can make us remember things we thought forgotten, or make us relive moments of our past that happened long time ago. Or at least that is how music makes me feel. Even if the song I’m listening to is one I don’t like. And that’s what happened to me today. I was working with Radio Paradise as background music when the played a song I don’t like from a band I don’t like, but suddenly, hundreds of memories and feelings hit me, leaving me stunned for a couple of seconds.

I’m not a supporter of trying to relive the past but if I had to, I would probably choose the summer of 2006: the summer I spent with you two, guys; the summer of our first Summercase; the summer of nights out from dusk to dawn, dancing and laughing on private jokes; the summer we spent knowing each other till we became the best friends; the summer of our late youth. And it’s funny that all that wonderful memories have been awoken by a song none of us like.

So, after eight years and many, many changes in our lives, I come here today to say thank you for sharing with me some of the best days of my life, for giving me those moments that I’ll keep with me for the rest of my life. Thanks very much Ali and Patty for that summer. I miss you so much…

By the way, the song is this one: “This Picture” by Placebo.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Es curioso cómo la música os hace recordar cosas que creíamos olvidadas, o nos hace revivir momentos de nuestro pasado que ocurrieron hace mucho tiempo. O al menos es así como me hace sentir a mí. Incluso cuando la canción que estoy escuchando es una que no me gusta. Y eso es lo que me ha pasado hoy. Estaba trabajando con Radio Paradise como música de fondo cuando han puesto una canción que no me gusta de un grupo que no me gusta pero, de repente, cientos de recuerdos y sentimientos me han atravesado, dejándome aturdida por un momento.

No soy partidaria de revivir el pasado pero si tuviera que hacerlo, probablemente elegiría el verano del 2006: el verano que pasé con vosotras, chicas; el verano de nuestro primer Summercase; el verano de salir por la noche desde el anochecer al amanecer, bailando y riéndonos de bromas sólo nuestras; el verano que pasamos conociéndonos hasta que nos convertimos en las mejores amigas; el verano de nuestra juventud tardía. Y es curioso que todos esos maravillosos recuerdos los haya despertado una canción que no nos gusta a ninguna!

Así que después de ocho años y muchos, muchos cambios en nuestras vidas, vengo aquí hoy para daros las gracias por compartir conmigo algunos de los mejores días de mi vida, por darme esos momentos que llevaré conmigo durante el resto de mi vida. Muchas gracias, Ali y Patty, por ese verano. Os echo tantísimo de menos…

Por cierto, la canción es “This Picture” de Placebo (video arriba).

Nice to meet you / Encantado de conocerte


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Hello again!

This is another of the assignment I’ve had to write for my online course. This time, I had to create (and describe) a character either from someone I know (even myself) changing a physical appearance (male to female or vice versa, younger or older…), or create it just from you imagination. So let me introduce you to Andy, my character.

Andy was small, even for a seven years old kid. And he hated it. His elder brother, Lucas, was a lovely boy of twelve, intelligent and mature… and tall and skinny, one of the tallest among his schoolmates. Everybody loved Lucas, so they loved Cristine, their little sister. The almost five years old girl was stunning at her age. Her big green eyes framed by long red eyelashes caught people attention as soon as they saw her. But that was only a part of her charm. When she smiled, her round freckled face seemed to illuminate all around her. Andy couldn’t understand why they loved her so much if she was only a stupid chatterbox with a pretty face. And what about Lucas, that damn know-all… 

He used to look at his reflection in the mirror and wonder why he had been given the worst characteristics among his siblings. He was not only small but too skinny which made him look as he was a couple of years younger. His short thick black hair made her skin look yellowish and dull. His thin lips and small black eyes, too close over a straight nose, gave him a severe look, despite he always tried to smile. A smile that barely reached his eyes. ‘But what does it matter when you have the brain?’ he used to said to himself. He might not be as intelligent as Lucas, but he was clever, and cunning. His marks at school were just average, with no special talent for any subject but for lies. He knew how to charm his teachers. At the end, his tiny body was quite helpful when he needed to make use of his “weakness”. Adults always tended to feel some kind of pity for him, as they felt the need to protect him though he wanted neither their compassion nor their help. 

His schoolmates were another thing. They avoid him as much as possible. Most of them had suffered some of his tricks and didn’t trust him at all, but even though, they were still so easy to cheat. Those fools! How could they be so stupid? Lies came to his lips as easy as water comes down from a tap: he only had to open his mouth and…

That’s what he was doing now in front of the headmaster and his English teacher. With a trembling voice he explained them how Jo, that kid from the next door class, had make him give him his new rugby ball under the threat of being bitten. The boy raised his voice to deny it, claiming that it was Andy itself who asked him to take it. ‘Why would I give him this ball if it’s one of the most valuable things I own?’ he said to his teachers. Jo was speechless as he looked to Andy, who looked him back, almost pouting. But his eyes shinned with joy, as saying ‘You might think twice before laughing at me again’.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

¡Hola otra vez!

Este es otra de mis “tareas” para el curso on-line que estoy haciendo. Esta vez tenía que crear (y describir) un personaje, bien a partir de alguien conocido (incluso yo misma) y cambiar algo fundamental de su aspecto (de hombre a mujer o viceversa, más joven o viejo…), bien totalmente a partir de mi imaginación. Así que permitidme presentaros a Andy, mi personaje!

Andy era bajito, incluso para un niño de siete años. Y lo odiaba. Su hermano mayor, Lucas, era un encantador niño de doce años, inteligente y maduro… y alto y delgado, uno de los más altos entre sus compañeros de colegio. Todos querían a Lucas, y también a Cristine, su hermana pequeña. La niña de casi cinco años ya era preciosa a esa edad. Sus enormes ojos verdes enmarcados por unas larguísimas pestañas rojizas captaban la atención de todos en cuanto la veían. Pero eso sólo era una parte de su encanto. Cuando sonreía, su carita redonda y pecosa parecía iluminarlo todo a su alrededor. Andy no entendía por qué todo el mundo la quería tanto si sólo era una estúpida charlatana con una cara bonita. Y qué decir de Lucas, ese maldito sabelotodo…

Él solía mirarse al espejo y preguntarse por qué le había tocado la peor parte de entre los tres. No es que fuera bajito sino además demasiado delgado, lo que le hacía parecer un par de años menor de lo que en realidad era. Su pelo corto, grueso y negro hacía parecer su piel aún más cetrina y apagada. Sus labios finos y los pequeños ojos negros, demasiado juntos sobre su recta nariz, le daban un aspecto severo, a pesar de que él siempre intentaba sonreir. Una sonrisa que rara vez alcanzaba sus ojos. ‘Pero ¿qué importa eso si tienes cerebro?1 solía decirse a sí mismo. Puede que no fuera tan inteligente como Lucas, pero era listo, y taimado. Sus notas no pasaban de la media, no tenía ningún talento especial salvo para las mentiras. Sabía cómo ganarse a los profesores. Después de todo, ese cuerpo canijo le resltaba bastante útil cuando necesitaba hacer uso de su “debilidad”. Los adultos siempre tenían tendencia a sentir pena por él, como si sintieran la necesidad de protegerle, aunque él no quería ni su compasión ni su ayuda. 

Sus compañeros ya eran otra cuestión. Le evitaban todo lo posible. La mayoría de ellos ya habían sufrido alguna de sus artimañas y no se fiaban de él, pero aún así, eran tan fáciles de engañar. ¡Menudos idiotas! ¿Cómo podían ser tan estúpidos? Las mentiras acudían a sus labios como el agua a un grifo: sólo tenía que abrir la boca y…

Eso era lo que estaba haciendo ahora en frente del director del colegio y de su profesor de inglés. Con voz temblorosa es explicaba cómo Jo, el chaval de la clase de al lado, le había obligado a darle su nuevo balón de rugby bajo amenaza de darle una paliza. El chico le interrumpió negándolo, afirmando que había sido el propio Andy el que le había pedido que lo cogiera. ‘¿Por qué iba a darle el balón si es una de las cosas más valiosas que tengo?’ dijo a sus profesores. Jo permaneció mudo de asombro mientras miraba a Andy, que le devolvió la mirada, haciendo pucheros. Pero sus ojos brillaban de alegría, como diciendo ‘Puede que la próxima vez te lo pienses dos veces antes de reírte de mi’.