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In exile, on September 29 a year I'd rather not remember. Don Alvaro Caro
:
Today I was finally able to read your message. In the mountains did not have access to the Internet.
The last days I used to know the mystic Al-Andalus. You know very well the attraction I feel for the South.
heartfelt thanks for your answer and the good spirit that you took my words.
I received a letter from Silvia with a photo of your little page. I found a cute boy. So I think he has the eyes of his mother.
I have not liked the tone of your letter, be whipped, talks about his little value, its few merits and mediocrity. How I wish for a moment to celebrate, thanks to what life has given him and feel proud of their accomplishments. I hope that only a crisis of postpartum depression.
I held myself and I sing, and every atom of my body belongs to those who love you, Walt Whitman wrote. This time rehearse singing to it, sing its praise, in name of love.
confess that I missed in those days. I wonder when I will see her again. I do not know if she will do the same, but, I miss her so much. It must be that I still ...
... Yes, as Joan of Ibarbourou sang-that our American-Juana, blood and bone, with the eye that looks and encouragement ... and with this love that I drink the feeling, from the little laugh until cry from the wound witch until your kiss ...
Because if I loved her, if you still love her. What I loved, what I love? Certainly not a cowardly and timid girl. Not one that felt old and incapable of everything. No! I loved a young girl frank smile, my company was looking for because he admired the wisdom and intelligence dazzled him that together we wanted.
was a girl who was eager to science and truth. I forget his watchful eye, his eyes fixed on my lips waiting to be coveted words came out promptly. I'm not afraid to say it was our best companion at the time those books.
I liked the feel dependent, eager to learn things, always well kept in dress, often elegantly dressed, careful with her hair, which lad playing learning-not-to become lord.
Then came the fights. Yours, mine with her own with her, ours, those of the two, three. Began to fight, get mad, you get mad you, it came and went ... always returned, as if he needed to drink from my secret source.
Then it was like a protected species for me, took care of you and your herbs that decided never to try, support, kept him back if necessary. How often selflessly, the preferred deferring myself and my business to make room for hers, as she willingly and humbly accept the services offered and lavished in heart.
Half of our youth shared the exit vi my bathroom - remember? I've told you a long time ha-wrapped in a towel. Then for the first time, I wanted to consciously, deliberately and freely, but not much more fear and guilt. My flesh became shaky in front of her.
In the midst of my confusion, I opted for the truth, which would allow me to continue looking straight ahead. I told him everything. But to my surprise, that did not cause more wonder. Since then, she herself wanted to go further. And I loved
. For the first time and as anyone so far, I loved.
However, as dreams do not last but seconds, the problems were soon better not remember. Everything collapsed. Today I know that between the two, something more than friendship has no future. This was, we, decided. The deeply respect that, but sometimes it does not seem.
may still want. I want it!, Indeed. How to deny the obvious. Well
Freud said that love is humiliated. Because, believe me I feel in this limbo is humiliating and makes me suffer a lot. I wonder if the next night, if you deserve a kiss from his lips, only one of these piles has given those who refused or tried, which did not suffer, or wept for his love Incidentally, progesterone and puberty. Love that had no centimeter of poetry, tenderness, madness and tragedy that is mine.
no longer expect anything from it ... and yet, I hope. Please do not take it as impertinence, my dear Don Alvaro, these secrets that you do, or feel guilty, or not tell her this letter. Ultimately, if anyone deserves the condemnation me, for having given up and given the way I did. Again: do not feel guilty, but not stop me express my sweet complaint. I promise not to laugh at my corny words this time. More reminiscent of times when you were in love, remember the nonsense you said, the tricks you used, the dangers that went through an "I love you" or for a time of closeness or intimacy tender, and because of this, pardon my language, I know, makes you uncomfortable and sometimes annoying.
The culprit is this nameless feeling, I do not know how to keep quiet, I wake up in the morning, that puts her in my thoughts so often, that will never be matched, which makes me defy death, men of my tribe, before whom "blasphemous" God now trembles. Love is a hell to which marched with firm step and that not even want to know how to escape.
Well, I must confess that I've seen people more attractive, better proportioned, perhaps more beautiful than Silvia yet the sight of nude members prefer not to any other. The passion that it takes away the feel better than anyone.
But I mostly believe in the profound goodness of his heart. In this generosity that would spare no effort for me when necessary. For I know that if tomorrow I fall down, if sick, if left alone, his strong arm, a woman and a mother of empty guts seduce me, go and get me. With it no shame, no need for me less ugly secrets or less negligible. So that I never feel for her, my footprint is unlikely to remove it from its path. Tomorrow will go away, marry (this is less likely. Hate routines and the seriousness of life), have other children, but when I heard my name, my very expensive, something will move in, there where very few have come in his life where very few will come later.
How long do we stay? I do not know. What I have of course is and how it hurts-so fragile that it will end and the thin line of things that unite us, end up breaking. At the end will be a nice or a bad memory. In a few years, if we turn to see, maybe history will repeat another night, the next day, our sin will again be our secret. For oaths and saying what to do specifically that provided resolutions fail because, you know, life takes care of us swallow the wine to the dregs we swore never suck and not without reason, the ancients said that coal has been grilled over a low fire is lit. You can attest to what I say.
Meanwhile, as I have and I have and I have you, fight together. She is capable of many things.
hear from my mouth has a long time (in that famous university exposure, embarrassed on behalf of cannabis), this axiom of Protagoras: Man is the measure of all things, which are (this love and tragedy ) and they are not (the future she has ahead).
(Here The Pilgrimage ends. What follows is written with a different color ink on a sheet torn from a notebook, which suggests it was written days later.)
I feel like a thousand years Europe, populated by heresies and immense confusion, misery and loss crowded in tremendous uncertainty facing the future. Like the millenarian hope the zero hour where everything will start again in a kind of morbid expectation and exalted. Struggle not to lose hope, then, for the first time, I wished death me ...
And what could say to yourself? You are young, my friend, and that the world is kneeling before you. Take it between your hands, grab a good time the reins. Become master of yourself, that it makes, perhaps Socrates said, does more than he who conquers a city. Ea
then! A fight! I scream from the bleachers with all my strength while running in the stadium, I myself will pluck the laurel branches of tightening your head. Those who love you will applaud. There will also be Silvia and his squire.
Take care, well baby. Tell her strange.
will send some money. I do not like begging him the coward of her lover, who gave him a son and went galloping.
I leave here in a week. I have no fixed destination yet. I think I'll go to the Maghreb (I have some contacts in Casablanca). So for now my letters do not wait.
Fraternally,
El Peregrino.
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