My polished pencil swam words from corner to corner and ramped down the paper sleds of stories. One of the many went like this:
---Cuando la vida te rompe las venas, la intencion es perder la sangre donde la ansiedad llevas---
Create a story around the clock and you create a story with barely a face or bones. The gestation of a story takes place at eternity square plaza where written images may come dressed as deception, frustration, resentment and/or anger avoiding, at all costs, the center marble fountain of love. Orpheus spoke of Purgatory, as Katherine Anne Porter wrote â€ślove is purely a creation of the human imaginationâ€?. I agree and yet, I don't. True, love is a product of our imagination, it is a concept: a human concept after all. Yet, the feeling that the very word represents is as REAL as the oxygen that we breath. Then she continues on describing, â€ś.....[love is] perhaps the most important of all examples of how the imagination continually outruns the creature it inhabitsâ€?. The so ethereal consistency of such ideal state -love- makes it unreal to pragmatists and so much divine to immortals. As a matter of fact, the word love in Spanish is â€śamorâ€?. The prefix â€śaâ€? meaning absence and â€śmorâ€? death, (from the Spanish word "muerte"). Love, in a nutshell, is â€śabsence of deathâ€?, my grandfather used to say. Would it be possible that love keeps us far from mortality, from erasing Eden away from our genes ? Because maybe, on the end, immortality can only hold love for keeps, can only trap it within its timeless existence. A boastful existence to all other elements of mortality but, not for love. As mere transitory souls in limited corporeal vessels our feeling of love could be perceived as infinite but, our thinking and imagination capacity very much finite.