of complicated mechanisms. The rotund reeked of stale onions, a stench emanated from his armpits and intensified as drops of sweat fall from his forehead over my face. The young smelled of cinnamon, but at times marked in the environment a nauseating fragrance of marinated seafood.
The onslaught of the fat vermin was the most egregious. Supporting the weight of his gross and repulsive corpulence was the least compared to feeling it in my guts.
LETTER THREE
Does it suffer more who waits for the caress of its love, or that sadness that does not have anyone to wait for?
The poet
A Frenchman claimed that love letters are written starting without knowing what is going to be said and ending without knowing what has been said.
Whenever I write to you, I try to do it with a fixed idea that I am gradually developing. This is not something I invented, but I've extrapolated from a theory of the story, according to which the first three lines have almost the same importance that the last three. I have understood this formula as the definition of writing, in any field.
But let's get into the matter. An African philosopher has delved into the theme of love, and in her work which is entitled Depth of the amatory arts she draws us showing the passive side of the desire which reaches its climax when it is satisfied and the diligent character of love as source activity. She condensed it into one powerful phrase:Love is infinite dissatisfaction. There is no more irrefutable truth.
This is the thesis that she develops throughout her work, sometimes a little hyperbolic, it is true, but never without charm. The interesting part is that phrase. Desire, according to her, culminates when it is satisfied. We wish something and when we get it, it is the end of the story.
But when the desire is linked to love, it is difeent: It is possible that the desire can route to love; the beloved, irrefutably we wish it, adds the philosopher.
Today I want you to feel that through my words I can caress you, and not with the prosaic friction that the delights of modesty pay us, but, but with these indelible caresses.
As the bards immortalize their loved ones, this humble practitioner would wish to glorify yourself with songs that refresh your youthful thirst and with poems that lull your afternoon. Say how much I am in love with you, virginal goddess, almighty, the owner of my love, the slave of my love, as the slave women of the Old Testament, with a candor of cosmos as Proserpina, infernal queen, or some pagan goddess. You are the Musa of poetry. You: a thousand women in one. A thousand goddesses in one. My Pandora, my Eva, my Mary Magdalena so purified for the kisses of Jesus.
You, who knows how to dominate my spirit, are my owner. And you are at every moment. Because your affable memory cures me of my melancholy: your words whispered in the wind and your face illuminating the space that could be empty unless you love this crazy man who lives only for you.
Your being is more hypnotic than a fantastic tale, as shrouded in mystery as a thriller, but at the same time so real and deep as a novel of realistic rawness. And there is no contradiction because sometimes you seem to me to be accurate and paradoxical.
With a vision that goes beyond the everyday, I try to reach you and delve into the depths of your love. And I get to see through your eyes (which are infinite receptacles of clairvoyance, as a crystal ball would be for an old woman versed in crystalomancy, but as delicate and pure as the Delphic oracle) that depth of mature woman, that indomitable strength that you carry deep, and makes me think of the strength of a god. Sometimes you seem to be too divine to proceed from earthly transcendence. Your ancestors can only be the same as those of Ariadne, divine caste of goddesses.
And meanwhile, I only have a dark minotaur that spins and spins in a circular maze of my brain, hoping that Theseus (divine love that professes me) breaks with his thread this brutal loneliness.
That is why I ask, along with the poet: Does it suffer more who expects the caress of its love, or that sadness that does not have anyone to wait for? Although the answer is obvious, the pain, when it is the product of waiting for love, is not bitter, and my promise appears that even having you close I will never stop writing love letters to you. Because you love me and because I love you, because I wait for you, and because you wait for me too, but mostly because our love will always be an infinite dissatisfaction.
Yours, wherever.
GRATITUDE
Gratitude comes from hands and goes through our arms toward the spinal nerve. It is violet that personifies temperance and reflection. It is offered with a sweet taste and a woody perfume. Its symbolic effigy is Wood and it will always be carved in this material. In the Tarot cards I mold it with The Hung Man, who hangs on a tree branch and exemplifies dedication and sacrifice. In the western zodiac imagine I associate it with Capricorn, parent of all generosity. In the Chinese zodiac I reveal it in The Boar, who never keeps resentment and it has an altruistic spirit. Gratitude is Condensed and it goes to the west behind a Wolf that feeds on the old and praises the new.
CHAPTER FOUR
They marched during nine days so that my humanity entered the limpid portal of her house in the fifteen years party. I arrived early, with my bloody innocent gift (at that time my mother worked as a dressmaker and the present I brought her was a cut from a cheap cloth) and with a smile that camouflaged nervousness. Half an hour later I was sitting in the main room orchestrating the way not to go dancing. At the bottom, in the anteroom, angry voices of experts talks were intensified in the same proportion which increased the force of music. Surely there were their parents, relatives and close people, people of Saturday dinners, all enjoying the pleasures of the coexistence of the moment (or at least that's how I imagined it, because I was not approached by the curiosity of observing who they were and I venture to say that even if I had, it is likely that I would not have recognized any of them). Most of my high school classmates surrounded me. My ineptitude to interact flourished at every moment and I did not know how to respond to the moment: the cave animal was facing for the first time the jungle world of the wild beasts.
It was time for the dance. My legs stuttered and implored me to rest and not because they were tired but because they were ashamed of their crudeness. She was the expert and she took my hands as if she wanted to teach me the dances that I might not learn in a lifetime. I don't remember if I danced with someone else. The most possible thing is that I did not. I left with the anticipation imposed by my watch and when I left the party she said goodbye with a kiss on my cheek. Dessert, unattained by my urgency, appeared a couple of hours later on my porch. Her delicate arms extending the disposable plate constituted one more step towards falling in love.
Although the fat man was the roughest, the dumb was the strongest. They squeezed me outside and inside while they silenced my despair by covering my mouth that moaned with dismay and helplessness, and my tears hit the pavement.
The young man was the most impetuous and contrary to what you might think. He never showed indecision and lashed out at me with the same predisposition as his elders.
Surely some scary soul must have seen the atrocity. I am sure of it. In the distance I noticed a light, some vehicle that focused the debauchery and then escaped. You may think, dear friend, that it was a hallucination of my own despair, as those refuges of water that the pilgrims of the desert imagine in the aridity of their exiles. It could have been a vision or a memory invented by my aging memory, but I'm sure it´s not. It was real, so real with the three-headed beast that possessed my body that night.
LETTER FOUR
The means of
