La vida es un viaje, no un destino.

Ésta es mi vida, un cuadro pintoresco. No como un Van Gogh, con su espesa belleza absurda en un lienzo pequeño; no como un Gauguin, con sus cielos plácidos y sus gentes serenas y su esplendor de bronce; no como un Rembrandt, conservador, modelo y burgomaestre; no como un Miguel Ángel, vasto y religioso, con verdad y fuerza en los brazos. El mío es como un Toulouse-Lautrec, con sus bragas de colores y su desenfreno; como un Degas, con sus incesantes bailarinas, su teatro, sus revistas, su humareda de vodka; como la oscuridad moteada de un pintor surrealista de la pequeña galería de ahora, donde hay que observar atentamente para encentar un significado, donde el color se despliega infinitamente; perdiéndose en un mosaico de diseños demenciales, pinceladas salvajes, caóticas, brochazos ebrios de óleo, espesamente aplicados en los sitios equivocados.
He intentado pintarlo con palabras, puesto que no podía hacerlo por medios plásticos. Pero no importa, aquí estoy, incapaz de entenderme a mí mismo. Sin saber quién soy yo todavía. Todavía buscando mi alma. El muchacho que reía… y que intentó quitarse de enmedio de vez en cuando, y que fracasó incluso en esto, y en otras cosas.
Oh, he visto y hecho no pocas cosas, he estado en no pocos sitios, he despertado no poco mis sentidos, y los he adormecido, y he explorado, y he reído, y he llorado más de lo que sospecharía la mayoría de la gente.


Soy un simple pasajero de un viaje que no planeé, a un sitio que no conozco.

Me gustan las palabras, me encanta jugar con las palabras, me gustan los dobles sentidos, las parábolas y las metáforas que las constituyen, no me gustan los rodeos, pero si los adornos, amo el caos pacifista y detesto el orden bélico, tolero a los intolerantes hasta que van más allá del pensamiento, no me gusta hacer planes porque temo que estos se vean truncados, mi búsqueda es la del placer inmediato porque me parece el mayor riesgo no arriesgar, no comprendo a aquellos que no tienen curiosidad, no entiendo cómo se puede perder la curiosidad sin perder la vida, no congenio bien con quien no se pregunta nada trascendente por el hecho de no ser practico, me gusta la intriga, me gustan las causas perdidas, prefiero una verdad dolorosa que una mentira piadosa, no me gusta que me den consejos, trato de evitar problemas con el prójimo pero siempre digo lo que pienso, si me atacan me defiendo, y aun así, siempre y en todo lugar... la única guerra que libro es contra mí mismo.

"Palabras"


Escritas o dichas.
Gritadas o calladas.
Inolvidables o secretas.
Inventadas or in another language.

Las palabras siempre forman parte de nosotros ¿o es al revés? ¿Con que otra cosa ha conseguido el hombre dar vida desde la nada? Me gustaría rememorar la sensación que debía tener de pequeño al descubrir las palabras, ¿qué me atraían más de ellas?¿sus formas o sonidos o las cosas que representaban? Sobre las palabras se ha escrito mucho y con ellas más pero ¿Cómo ves tu estos tiempos para ellas? Se olvidan, se reducen, se disfrazan, se gritan, se echan en cara, se abandonan, se rechazan,… Quizás con tanta tecnología estamos provocando su desaparición pero mientras haya personas como tu y como yo vivirá una palabra con la que nada ni nadie podrá: “ESPERANZA”
Recent Tweets @jorgelopezrodas
Who I Follow
Una mujer es como la buena literatura, al alcance de todos, pero incomprensible para los estúpidos.
Gabriel García Márquez.

(vía sanosysalvos)

Seria un placer ver tus ojos muy de cerca.
Julliette. 

(vía sanosysalvos)

Escribir es como hacer el amor. No te preocupes por el orgasmo, preocúpate del proceso.
Isabel Allende 

(vía escandalos-textuales)

Usted y yo sabemos, que el amor es una cosa seria.
Benedetti

(vía elmardealgunlugar)

(vía fanyec)

110 758 reproducciones

Courtney Love reading Kurt Cobain’s suicide note.
I feel the same way you guys do. If you guys don’t think … that I used to sit in this room, when he played the guitar and sang, and feel so honored to be near him, you’re crazy… Anyway, he left a note, it’s more like a letter to the fucking editor. I don’t know what happened. I mean it was gonna happen, but it could’ve happened when he was 40. He always said he was gonna outlive everybody and be a hundred and twenty. I’m not gonna read you all the note ’cause it’s none of the rest of your fucking business. But some of it is to you. I don’t really think it takes away his dignity to read this considering that it’s addressed to … most of you. He’s such an asshole. I want you all to say ‘asshole’ really loud.

“This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and embracement of your community, has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to, as well as creating music, along with really writing something, for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things – for example, when we’re backstage and the lights go out and the roar of the crowd begins, it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love and relish the love and adoration of the crowd.”
Well, Kurt, so fucking what — then don’t be a rockstar you asshole.

”Which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact, I can’t fool you, any one of you, it simply isn’t fair to you or to me. The worst crime I could think of would be to put people off by faking it, pretending as if I’m having 100% fun“
No Kurt, the worst crime I can think of is for you to just continue being a rock star when you fucking hate it, just fucking stop.

”Sometimes I feel as I should have a punch-in time-clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it, and I do, God believe me, I do. But it’s not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re alone. I’m too sensitive. Oh, I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last three tours I’ve had a much better appreciation of all the people I’ve known personally, and of fans of our music. But I still can’t get out the frustration, the guilt and the empathy I have for everybody. There’s good in all of us and I simply love people too much.”
So why didn’t you just fucking stay?

”So much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. Sad little sensitive unappreciative Pisces, Jesus, Man…”

Oh shut up, bastard. Why didn’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know. Then he goes on to say personal things to me that are none of your damn business; personal things to Frances that are none of your damn business.

”I had a good marriage, and for that I’m grateful. But since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful toward all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy.“

Empathy?

”Only because I love and feel for people too much I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the last years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody person and I don’t have the passion anymore. So remember…
“ And don’t remember this, cause this is a fucking lie!

”It’s better to burn out than to fade away“

God! You asshole.

”Peace, Love, Empathy. Kurt Cobain.“

And then there are some more personal things that is none of your damn business. And just remember: this is all bullshit. But I want you to know one thing: that 80’s tough luck bullshit, it doesn’t work. It’s not real. It doesn’t work. I should have let him – we all should have let him – have his numbness. We should have let him have the thing that made him feel better, that made his stomach feel better. We should have let him have it, instead of trying to strip away his skin.
You go home and you tell your parents, “Don’t you ever try that tough love bullshit on me, ‘cuz it doesn’t fucking work.” That’s what I think.

And I’m laying in our bed, and I’m really sorry. And I feel the same way you do. I’m really sorry you guys. I don’t know what I could have done. I wish I’d been here. I wish I hadn’t listened to other people, but I did.
Every night I’ve been sleeping with his mother, and I wake up in the morning and think it’s him because his body’s sort of the same.
And I have to go now. Just tell him he’s a fucker, OK? Just say “fucker.” “You’re a fucker.” And that you love him.

(vía figuras-geometricas)