Me. Love. 

Art is creation, is the self-expression of the misunderstood. Art is suffering, some days it transforms into spring flowers and winter laughs, but some days it remains suffering.

Mirrors are a trembling reminder of war. Personal and sentimental. Loneliness. Sometimes they are your only friend.

Water fills our soul, sleep reduces the pain in it. It creates a loop of neutral sentiment. And a forgive-fulness era of constant reminders of how I was feeling.

The memories that made us laugh when we were together, now makes us cry when we are alone and separated. And I miss you.

I mis your laugh, your nose, your horrible voice, your non-existence freckles that you always said you had. Your harrowing hair full of curls of confusion and doubt.

Oh man, how I loved you.
In that chaotic times, art was merely art, but it wasn’t suffering it was love and happiness. And laugh was music and angelic sounds.

Mirrors were objects and not company. Water was water, and sleep was nothing but the simple act of sleeping. And I loved you.

I loved you.

Like I love the smell of flowers, the bus ride back home from school, the smell of books and vanilla candles, the chirping of birds, the softness of my bed, the joy of putting clean socks on.

As simple as all that sounds. That’s how I loved you. Time was nothing. And now I can not say I hate you. But I can say miss you, I miss how everything felt. I miss you and perhaps I still love you.


A text by Susana Villalvazo

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