Wandering troubadour

I meditate. I do not know what time it should be, even if you start to pour some light through the front door. Before, in bed yet, I decided not to go jogging this morning. In a while, when the sun is higher, I'll go up and read the terrace. I reserved for today the end of La noche del oráculo , of Auster .

I still do not smoke, it should be around 2 months since I wanted to stop completely and once, I think it was a Tuesday. I am satisfied. Very seldom does my head ask for nicotine. And of course, the body responds. These holiday days are the first in 5 years that I stay at home. So I decided. I want to confine myself, the bear, the winter and the cave. I reject a place for another retreat, I did not see myself with strength or convinced for the harshness of what would be the 4th retreat. Maybe in the summer or next Christmas.

Of course I have taken to the letter what to "stay at home". I leave the essential. I've only gone out to buy, to run, to the gym and to the usual meals these days. Yesterday was an exception the food with Xavi . I liked that he called me. I knew perfectly well that this time I would not have done it.

We talked about how we had these days. He also knows quite well how I carry them. He always underlines - to my indifference and aversion to any social convention - the importance of symbology. It reminds me that the great moments of life are linked to a ritual. I do not say no, but they do not serve me. I simply do not believe them. I stay with my little rites and symbols. Even to take the opposite of the world. If not, to this world. He also reminded me again of my instability and my need for intensity. Here I autocoloqué the label of artist: "and that artist is not unstable" ...

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I also do not know when, a dream came back that I discovered this night and that it is recurrent. I have dreamed it many times ... without realizing it until now. It turns out that I'm studying something, and everything is terribly messy, hundreds and thousands of papers in different places are not even, what should be in its place is not ... until I've come to doubt if I was really studying that. ... what was ... as in a university context ... as absolutely chaotic and lost ... then I have a feeling of absolute uncontrol ... disaster ... anyway ... that dreams ... .suños and we are ...

I feel like writing. These days of seclusion I have worked in the poems. About 170 pages of poems written in the last 3 years. I think I can save the necessary things from the burning. I have not yet begun to count them, neither the writings nor the selected ones. When you convince me, I like myself or more like when I wrote it, I wonder how I could do it ... as if sometimes I was not able to feel something of talent. Especially when I read some big shit and I signed it. It is very ambivalent.

I have re-read the last year and a half, as well as all the blog posts of that time. It is a curious exercise. How to confirm how far I fall from the past, until the most recent. I am becoming a very forgetful being.

I have also read all the comments again. I have noticed (and come back to surprise) the people who have long read me and comment, especially about Paz, my brother Trova, Calma, Soco, Lara, who are also there in a lesser measure and that I remind you all perfectly ... and especially of my teacher Jose Luis Zúñiga, the day when there were no more comments from him, his encouragement, advice and push for this first poemario ... the truth is I miss it.