December
They are mine fingers with which I write, but they are not the words once they come out of my. They are mine for now – ideas, not so your conclusions about them. Mine and no one else are the memories: sounds, images, and especially smells. Mine are the subtle flashes of wind on my skin and yours, but not vice versa. They are mine, some borrowed, fears and the doors close, they are mine also moments in which I remember that I have to open them. They are mine the seconds that pass and this is a perpetual oblivion life goes and I forget, or give it. It is my East overwhelming moment of breathing and see and hear and feel, so much so that before the abrumo present respond my tears. This city that mine is not is how cover, like putting a suitcase that can not weigh more than 23 kg.
Impotence is also mine, eternal repentance of what I left pass although I I also took much, did much, never enough. Is mine the courage for two souls cowards to laughter, laughter of the countdown approaching to the zero. It is mine the inability and power the sadness and joy passion and hate success and frustration are mine doves, the balcony, the sound of traffic, the whisper of rain heat cold moisture distance is mine without a doubt the yearning and wonder without end, I condemned, that I, a March and term confirming in a December. Buenos Aires is mine, with my friends and my damned heart, its buildings and squares, its Green, yellow trees, oranges and blacks, mine is this city that injected me life, challenged me, attacked me, made me grow, put me against the demist mirror, gave me paper and pencil to draw and thus taught me the meaning that beats in my veins of the word freedom. It is mine its people, from the CLAVIJO to the concheto, are mine dogs and their children, are yours my love and my hate and is since long ago that their wars are and will be the mine.
Is with certainty, now it is, that we are all the same, we all want the same thing, not importing the portion of the globe that we have. I say goodbye little by little and by announced end, appreciation from the coldest to the stifled day. Way down the street giving me account from all corners that I need travel impossible to encompass Bs.As. Is that it is mine, because I feel the taste and disgust, love and indifference, that only what is authentically own inspires. V. original author and source of the article.