Lovers of life

Sex is sex, just like war is always war. And in war there are winners and losers, just as in sex there are people who really enjoy themselves, those that are evil, and those that are lost. These ones, perhaps many.

People who are looking for arms to feel the heat that makes us feel alive. But are they looking for it from the hand of intelligence? I don’t know. The lost ones tend to harbor fear, and with fear there is no freedom nor sex with intelligence.
The evil ones may believe that they use it, but since their goals are only their self-satisfaction: it is better to let them believe that they are great in their limited sense….they would know!

So, is it there anybody who uses intelligence for mutual enjoyment?
Yes, the lovers of life. Because, they know how to feed the desire of the other skin and therefore, their increasing their own; because, where they put a word, they stop to listen to an answer. Where thy caress, they observe a reaction. Because, when they kiss, they have enough memory to hold the pleasure they are capable of giving. And they give it over and over enjoying how the capacity to feel is nourished.
Having feelings for another, making room for another, sewing the desire with small stitches.

A desire that incites a greater one, an intelligent journey for what they call sex between two. Of course, a game of fabulous pleasure that you could fall in love with.


Let me go

Let me go,
the skin is contained
the laughter, silent.

Let me go,
Is the desire wasted
or does the night persuade?

The desire is wasted…

Let me go
and warm my dreams up
for the cold morning,
when the sexy woman dies
and the lady conquers.

I don’t want to suffer in your mouth
nor die either when I cannot have your love.

Let me go,
don’t make room for me
if I’m not your morning boob.


Photography by Natalia Gónzalez Pérez

To be loved

Two imperfect beings, that could be you and me, carrying backpacks that we would like to forget in any park, one of those days. But, for which we would return without doubts not being able to be unfaithful to ourselves.

Because, how can you leave behind everything you’ve lived?

And, at this point in which I cannot be without myself, my imperfection meets with yours and they tremble each in others hands, like the branches of the trees dancing in a storm. You remember the madness that you had missed, but also long for it.
And another wound is feared, a possible failure. Your dread the emotional pain but you still feel the desire to love and be loved. A desire that slips between the tips of my fingers while I am attracting it with my memory.

And while I caress myself, the necessity to feel alive again takes hold of me. I am tempted to know what could happen between two imperfect beings. Beautifully imperfect, clumsy and insecure. A middle age woman and man, two simple people in this world.


The Machinery

People say that age changes you, that it transforms you. The packaging, of course.

I am standing in front of the mirror and, although I recognize myself, I don’t have any doubt about it. All my features are less defined; the muscles are more relaxed than normal. The skin has its battle wounds; the blessed wrinkles of laughter and others that are not so welcome. Inevitably, time passes by. But, if I stop and look into my own eyes, I can find an ageless person who will live inside myself as long as I feed her dreams.

It’s at that moment when I snap back into reality, trying to get away even from my own shadow because I prefer time to be endless, just like my mind. Because one day I will not exist at the same time as my own conscience, so why bothering to give it the smallest thought.

That way brings me to this kind of sentences: “I’m at that point of my life where….”, through which people put a before and an after as if you could mutate from a human to an ameba, depleting the capacities that you had -and the desire at the same time -, in such a way that I would refuse to recognize myself.
Because, even when our internal circuit is worn out, the mind that moves it will always be powerful. The same that is born with us and dies.

Maybe in my case it’s even the reverse, because I feel a regression to childhood recovering that point of disinhibition when we didn’t have any identification tags hanging.
Or maybe, ¿Is it that I turned fifty and I’m back?

In any case, everything depends on the prism we want to look us through, and I prefer to think that inside me lives an eternal being. That, although many times the growth is seen as a metamorphosis, ours is not about butterflies. Neither for the good nor for the bad. That, as the saying goes, who is born piglet, dies as a pig.
Everybody is free to believe that with each fall we learn, but I reaffirm that you continue falling over the same way, in the same place and at the same time, as the song says.
That we will end up laughing with the same things and, at least, we will always love the way we know, the way nobody taught us to.

Because the mark is like the writing that defines us, that seems to change at the same speed we deform and shorten its strokes, without realising we are drawing crooked lines since childhood. Some go more upwards and some more downwards, according to the optimism that each one brings under his arm.

It is clear that I tend to go upwards, letting the girl inside keep going on. A girl who arrived with a luggage that changed over time. The one that hates what is sentenced without right to appeal for, the one who defends herself when someone attacks her until she recovers her own dreams again, because we shouldn’t allow anybody to destroy what they can not find inside themselves.
The one who never wanted to lose conscience about her feelings, without rejecting her fears or quiting facing sadness. Because this is how you learn and find yourself.

One day someone told me that I should never betray my soul, and this is the way I have being since. Like the watch machine that measures time, a thousand times adjusted but in a continuous movement. For the pessimisict, erasing hours; for those on my side, passing and going through 12 in an eternal circuit that will only stop when we run out of this world.