Silence

"Silence. The accusation and simplification is enough for a few characters, sometimes with an image with nothing to see in the context: It is the triumph of the overcoming and forgetting. The simple speech of the servant against the pain of the slave. And more easy of course, if the slave breaks the chains and cry and scream in his escape. They, in a Sunday at night working and morally superiors will celebrate the gift of their employers and owners. Tomorrow in the afternoon if the action goes down they will just be discarded. But the guilty will always be those who, in their love and their mistake, tried to teach them to be free.  My father taught me to be free and my grandfather the frustration of loving. However,  both loved despite the unbearable. What do you know about love if you are in silence? It is not a question to battle for someone, but for something together. Together is like empathy in these times: a misunderstood word, considered a transactional term for them who knows pleasure and not passion. I'm the worst and the best of the last times of this humanity.  Alone, waiting for the attack to just kill me but my death will lift my memory... passion and love. Fraternity and liberty. All against the silence.

The human conscience is there. Sometimes it becomes art however the more part of the time is an incomprehensible collection of words or strokes or notes waiting after a short silence, but many years and lives after the illumination and the understanding of them, without any intellectual superiority. Just humans: men and women who feel and think without remorse. With the capability to be free and love. And the opportunity of course, because it is not a question to be because it is necessary only to want. They are slaves and oppressed people and some of the free persons could be teach the liberation because they cannot set others free, out of fear, because poltroonery but the teaching can work. More than the words, with the actions and tears and music and poems. A manifesto of life. I write you four emails, with fear and guilt. I tried to draw your attention in hatred, with fear and guilt. I call all your demons (even the ones you hated in the past), with more fear but determination. And I remember now, with your silence, (however that you said that the noise of your orgasms does not allow it, nothing new to say, you tell me a night), your fear and how you tell me about your frivolity and how you love me, a Sunday night, the night you mourned your father's death. 🎶The days are bright and filled with pain...  Enclose me in your gentle rain... The time you ran was tooI Insane... We'll meet again, we'll meet again ... 🎶but you don't know this song and do you know about love if you don't know the beautiful histories told by the struggles against all destinies. 

Who has the courage to mark the presence? Of course, in the short words, it is easy to find the reason (or excuse) to walk away and just watch, in silence. After, with the next phrase in the next phone call to feed hatred and misunderstanding because it is more easy (even though the passion in an afternoon to make cookies), because for the human, easy is better, as the generalisation. Then, however, it is possible to leave the mark (same if after it is destroyed) and the legend of the erased mark can inspire and it is sufficient to motivate something: a song, a poem, the next revolution. Sunday night, how I would have wished that something wonderful. Like the betrayal you were able to do to me... How I would have liked to inspire you so much... but to be simple, loyal and humane, it bothers a lot. Why aren't you just a bastard? - You tell me this night when you fuck with my best friend and after, same if only he wanted to simply possess you, you looked for it. And I fought against all destinies: because passion, because love and because the music. - Please tell me, please, please let's talk - I said in the last battle. Bukowski would laugh at me, but you, however my love and passion, but you don't know who he is. I don't support cats and I don't have any time or space for dogs. 

Silence. Nothing new to write or to say. A hot night alone, then the trace appears and that is enough. The will is the opportunity to be frivolous and to be over the other. Where is the fraternity? Where is the sense of the compassion and reason in a world of sensations and hate? They who bravely mark a presence knows the place and the moment to inspire the others and a little portion of the humans arrives to be there. It is wonderful the free people and the people in revolution against all destinies: crying, singing, writing, thinking and in all absolute appreciation of the other, and the feelings and love, they inspired and learning,  fighting for what is worthwhile, together with someone, not for someone, before it can no longer be. What wonderful humanity that recognizes it in time. Before blaming. I miss you but I tried. And now, even though you are the love of all my lives, I don't want to wait for you anymore. I don't want you to arrive when my lips are dry and my and my body does not feel anything. Or in a night when  my mind does not remember your name. I miss you, in a song, in a poem but I want your eyes and your lips, and your smile, and your words and your sex. Now, I know you read me, waiting for the moment when I'm wrong, another action to attack me. Why not search me? Write me? Listen me? It is Sunday night, it is a horrible weather in hot, but we can go against all destinations. It's not complicated, only you ends the silence. Before it is too late."