Living Can Not Always Be Resisting

LIVING CAN NOT ALWAYS BE RESISTING

 I review my body from afar

and feel a certain strangeness

in not identifying with what I see.

My body is not me,

my flesh does not belong to me,

and, for this reason,

I do not step firmly on this ground.

If I am not my body,

with this wrapping, I reaffirm

the darkened side,

the senseless coldness,

and the restless heart.

I am not the mirror that reflects me,

I am not what I once imagined,

for I kept my distance

and burned me by choice,

ashen in the multiple colors,

conditioning the vase without flowers.

By telling you my truth

and fleeing from vanity,

I distanced myself from all seductive stimuli,

darkening within

until I became pure cement.

Conditioned by time,

crushed by the wind,

petrified by my own venom.

Until the unexpected happens,

and something lands upon me,

and, slowly, I see my fragments fall,

my ivory skin,

sculpted by the chaotic

and progressive wreckage.

"I am on the verge of vanishing,"

I think as I watch the Sun rise again,

and I reaffirm to myself:

LIVING CANNOT ALWAYS BE RESISTING.

I let everything happen,

accept the sentence, and do not fight

for the last piece of dessert.

Because I abandoned everything,

giving up everything,

renouncing everything,

including myself

and what was never offered to me.

For I walk toward Nothingness,

and there, nothing matters

except for its arrival.