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viernes, 4 de diciembre de 2015

Those were our times, CR

A. Engelhardt


In that time, we could cure our disappointments with diplomas, and our defects with youth and firm bodies that wouldn’t stand the passage of time, as we would discover later on. In that time, we created a world of rebellion that consisted of reading the classics at a very young age, of writing controversies at a very young age, and of being just what we were: the makeshift portrait of freedom. Innocence was by then, our most notorious weapon, the tool with which we drove older people mad, because we had something they could never buy back: youth ... and that created an explosive sexuality that wouldn’t let anyone untouched. We were beautiful, we were young and the past was too far away to feel sad about it. Our bodies were a miraculous gift of pale skin and round breasts with tiny pink nipples. Those were our times, and they’re never coming back.

I drink a beer, I never liked beer when I was young. I look at myself in the mirror, I look wasted, my skin is wrinkled and my body is shrinking. I still preserve that look, that sexual energy, but I’m no longer young to feel proud about it. Time is a disease, girl. You will learn it in due time. One day you’ll wake up and you’ll feel just as finished as I feel, if you’re brave, you’ll kill yourself. On the contrary, be prepared for the constant humiliation of getting older. Smile on your birthdays, pretend that your happy and cry wherever no one can see you, for no one should ever be the addressee of your pain, do not give that satisfaction to anyone. Remember how proud you used to be, and never lose that thought, remember how beautiful you used to be and fool yourself in front of the mirror. Remember, remember, for you will see how close the past will look by then, the constant longing of what cannot be reached anymore. The past, the word that meant nothing to you before, when you couldn’t even understand why people cried on their birthdays. What did aging mean to someone  turning 18, anyway? Just the prospect of a future. But future, my dear is always one step ahead of us, you'll never reach it, but you'll always wait for it ... though the only certain future is decadence and death.


Have you ever heard anyone dying? It sounds like an opera but sadder. 

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