MY HEART BURNS

The point is, when you’re fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, you can do anything. You can afford to be wrong. The thing is, it’s beautiful and we don’t realize it. It is the age of skipping school and falsifying it justifies it. Sweaters that are too baggy, tea under the covers on Sunday afternoons with friends. Concerts. The scars on his arms. The writings in the school toilets. It is the age of mistakes, the age that does not return, the age of whatever you do you can still fix. It is the age of crying for things that are nothing and seem everything, the age of first loves, the first kisses, the pain of when it ends, the “forever” that will never be. The fact is that it is wonderful and we do not realize it, we put ourselves in a cage for fear of life, without realizing that the real life is right now, the one that will not come back, the one that at thirty we would like to be able to relive. The fact is that we are a damned, burned, gone, passed away generation. The generation of facebook, twitter and tumblr. Conversation stamps, messages that are too long, too many tasks, dilators and tattoos done without thinking. Of “I want to live in London”, “I want to live in New York”. Poems on school desks. The films seen a thousand times. Friendships from a distance. The stations. The trains. The insecurities. Stop eating and start again two days later. And it’s beautiful, we just don’t realize it. I just don’t realize it. It’s time to start breathing, screaming and living. Live to your skin and bones. Live to consume our souls.
The strangest thing of all is that you learn quickly, that you suddenly begin to recognize things, to call them by their real name. When someone you love dies, something comes that grabs your belly and won’t let you go. No heart, no, the heartbeat remains the same, the blood pumps in and out, the chest doesn’t hurt, the famous pang in the heart is just an invention of those who write serial novels in the Thursday weekly. The pain that makes you double over is the pain in your stomach. It is not as strong as that of a fist but it manages to be worse, because it starts from the inside, crawls down the throat, floods your bowels and closes everything. The pain of dead love is as ferocious as suffocating, but I’ll get used to it. There will be many things that I will have to get used to, and there will be just as many that I will have to do without

 

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