Director's Cut

Fuck you.
Fuck you and your heroic working class stories told in a fancy bar
showing off your country's miseries to make you look great.
Pretending you do not like the life you have provided yourself with big effort.
Fuck the dreams you have left away to make room to your class-passing fetish.

Fuck the academy and everyone on it:
Who only cares to get sold to the higher price.
Who sells what cannot be sold.
Who thinks the client will be always right whenever funding does afford.
Fuck who offers her expertise to approve crap
sinking in the comfy couch of her ivory tower
saying: "we cannot have something better now, but we are still working on it".
Fuck who rebels only for his own needs, bribing with becoming a mercenary.
Fuck people trying to make honest reviews and editors selecting material for them
at the same time they want to figure out who wrote the paper.
Fuck the significance test-fishers who get the butter in their tables making scientific methods
meaningless.
Fuck academic feudalism supported by masters and servants who just want to be protected
from the horrific outside world.
Fuck who put her feet on somebody she respects as soon as she can, just to keep her status intact.
Fuck applied solutions' sellers who contributes to rot inside the whole thing,
sweep under the carpet what smells until it starts to stink.
Fuck who thinks he's better than the system just because he points out its mistakes
from tenure heights where he arrived stepping on the same dirty stairs.
Fuck who hides his prejudice where liberal thinking is the mainstream,
just because it is the place where nobody would search for them.
Fuck the "society's watchtower" disguise of academy, still alive just because society is too lazy to look
its putrid basements.

Fuck your goal of becoming a necessary disease who everybody clap.
Fuck you, selling your friend for a pinch of feeling of power.

Winter

I did not come to carry away your winter
To tell you how great summer is going to be.
Life is a leaf, but it does not make you a wind.
You know the way that always get us here.
Nowhere.
Please feel at home.

09-08-2013

So yes, you're done.
You've chosen to be one of those ghosts
that yourself used to worship
(which is another way to say
you hated them secretly).
It could be your last chance
to admire that declining face
on a turbid pond's reflection.

Cowardice

"I am astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed. My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from finishing: it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing something. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will's surrender. I begin because I don't have the strenght to think; I finish because I don't have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice."

Fernando Pessoa

Je meurs votre ami.

30 Mai, 1832.

Lo despertó un rostro que le miraba horrorizado y un dolor ciego en el vientre. Sintió la clara luz de la  primavera filtrándose a través de sus párpados. Évariste recordó por qué este despertar era distinto a todos los demás.  Se había herido con el honor, un arma cuya empuñadura hace sangrar más que su filo. La ironía era la operación que regía su destino: descubrir la elegante belleza de un grupo de operaciones abstractas, solo para morir a manos de una mundana relación irreflexiva, tristemente anti-simétrica y mortalmente intransitiva.

ChD.

10-05-13

No salva del olvido
La memoria solícita y la infinita biblioteca
en cuya vastedad reside su insignificacia.

No salva de la corrupción
La idea altiva y el adjetivo idólatra
que se esgrimen como espadas de cera.

No salva del dolor
Tratar de fabricarse uno a la medida.

No salva el ser temerario
de no pensar alguna vez en ser salvado.

No salva el amor verdadero
del amor real.

No salva la fiel derrota
del albur del próximo sueño.

ChD.

Awakening

La realidad reveló el negativo con un rayo fulminante. Vio -no por primera vez- la deformidad de su alma que relucía como el traje nuevo del emperador.  Entendió que toda dignidad implica cierta forma de patetismo y que la suya no era la más noble. Pudo haber extendido su mano a tiempo, apaciguar su corazón, traficar una sonrisa, como había visto a otros hacerlo tantas veces. Pero algunos seres perseveran en no-ser, a su manera.

Si lo ves desde una distancia suficiente, no podrás diferenciar un mármol heroico de una pila de huesos.