Comarca Lacrimosa

"You know the worst thing is freedom. Freedom of any kind is the worst thing in the world. 
You know, I spent two months in jail in Spain, and these two months were the most enjoyable and happy in my life. 
Before my jail period, I was always nervous, anxious. I didn’t know if I should make a drawing, or perhaps make a poem, or go to the movies or the theatre, or catch a girl, or play with the boys. The people put me in jail, and my life became divine."
(Dalì)

















They manufactured me a perfect child '70s' model and threw me to this perfect world of you and me
I lamented it in my heart and wanted to blame them but I couldn't: the TV was on, probably.

Recondite Brazils were opened to my eyes through the gatefold hard cover of humid books that smelled like salivated milk & tea or the Pyrenean grass of Aragón

and the pluvijungle-city of Calcutta, where the men born from the thigh of the mother and live in trunks full of regurgitated ambrosia

according to mother I started speaking very soon, and started writing when I was 3 or 4 years old
maybe the early comprehension brought adhered its own pain and I banned the innocence and the one-liner forever, who knows.


For some reason my life always was between two lands, with an ocean in the middle [under my open legs]: they didn't understand my condition, and my retina didn't understand their life: 
I lost, they won.


I was accused of this, and of that, and a closed wall of human backs beheld me with furious indifference without realizing that originally I was the same as them, and I was Monday and I was Friday; and I was every day that the stupid fear spoiled, and the TV was still on, if I remember correctly.


In my Comarca Lacrimosa never there was offense, same as the pit of Veronique, just surd yearning

and when the hurt came closer, like a disfigured bear of summer on a disfigured Asturian prairie in blinding green, I pretended it wasn't real, and I armed these bones with unemotionality, as if I watched my own life televised

suddenly, circa 2008, like a door abruptly slammed, I stopped crying for good, and secretly became an invulnerable monster, I think I cried one day in 2012.
And in my cerebral obcecation I lied and falsified truths and turned the myth into reality and the reality into myth, and forged 1005 appearances, which are all mine and only mine, and all are true, and I did this because I never saw love or empathy in their hearts, just utilitarianism, or in other words: nothing.




Because you'll never understand this lachrymose comarque where the tears are called and don't come, this glorification of the mistake, this strange fascination for the catastrophe and this love for the life 
and for the death... yet, because ¿What's the death, but the most extreme, vigorous, lively and incomprehensibly noble manifestation of life?

I still love, and that's my most sacred justification.