β°γπ§Όπππ’ππππ§γβ°
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β°γπ§Όπππ’ππππ§γβ°'s Interests
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πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄πͺπ· πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄πͺπ· πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄πͺπ· πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄πͺπ· πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄ πΏπ»π΄π°ππ΄ πͺπ· |
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πππ'π π³πππ... π·π§ β πΊπππ ππ! β(γΟΒ·)v οΏ£οΏ£οΏ£οΏ£οΌΌοΌοΏ£οΏ£οΏ£ β β β β β§οΌΏβ§β β β β β β β οΌΒ΄γ»Ογ»οΌ β β οΌΏοΌΏ_(γ£ ζ¦oοΌΏοΌΏ β |lοΏ£l||οΏ£γοΎγοΎοΏ£|iΒ |
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Ζͺΰ»κ°ΰΎΰ½²Β΄κ³` κ±ΰΎΰ½²ΰ§§Κ |
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πΊπΈπ»π» πΌπ΄ Ζͺΰ»κ°ΰΎΰ½²Β΄κ³` κ±ΰΎΰ½²ΰ§§Κπ·πͺπ©Έ |
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β‘ πΈ π πππ ππππ πππ π ππ’π ππ ππππ ππ’ππππ!π·π©Έ O Β° γβ§οΌΏβ§Β ββοΌ Β΄γ»Ογ»οΌΒ γ½_γ£οΌΏ/οΏ£οΏ£οΏ£/ γ γΒ Β Β Β Β οΌΌ/οΌΏοΌΏοΌΏ/ |
β°γπ§Όπππ’ππππ§γβ°'s Latest Blog Entries [View Blog]
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β°γπ§Όπππ’ππππ§γβ°'s Blurbs
About me:
π·πͺπΈ...La soledad no hace ruido,
pero pesa.
Se sienta a mi lado cuando nadie mira
y me habla con mi propia voz.
Me dice que soy sobra,
que mi nombre no deja huella,
que si desaparezco
el mundo seguirΓ‘ respirando igual.
Hay noches en que mis pensamientos
se vuelven un cuarto sin ventanas,
donde las paredes repiten
todo lo que temo creer.
No quiero morir.
Quiero que deje de doler existir.
Quiero que alguien vea
este cansancio que no sangra
pero mata lento.
La soledad me toma de la mano
y me promete silencio,
descanso,
un final que suena a paz
cuando ya no queda fuerza.
Pero incluso ahΓ,
en el borde del pensamiento,
algo tiembla.
Una chispa mΓnima,
una pregunta que no se rinde:
ΒΏy si maΓ±ana duele un poco menos?
Sigo aquΓ.
No porque sea fΓ‘cil,
sino porque, en el fondo,
todavΓa espero
que alguien pronuncie mi nombre
como si importara.
π·πΊπΈ... Loneliness makes no noise, but it weighs heavily. It sits beside me when no one is looking and speaks to me with my own voice. It tells me I'm superfluous, that my name leaves no trace, that if I disappear the world will keep breathing the same. There are nights when my thoughts become a windowless room, where the walls repeat everything I'm afraid to believe. I don't want to die. I want existence to stop hurting. I want someone to see this weariness that doesn't bleed but kills slowly. Loneliness takes my hand and promises me silence, rest, an end that sounds like peace when all my strength is gone. But even there, on the edge of thought, something trembles. A tiny spark, a question that won't give up: What if tomorrow hurts a little less? I'm still here. Not because it's easy, but because, deep down, I still hope that someone will say my name as if it mattered.
Who I'd like to meet:
π·π©Ήπ½πππππ’ πππππππππππ ππ... πΈ'π ππ π ππππ-πππ πππ£π, πππππ ππππππππ ππ’ ππ’ππππ.Β
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Β (ｑ- .β’) οΌκͺ±ΧΧ ΧΧ ΧΧ ΖΧΧ κͺ±ΧΧ ΧΧ ΧΧ α₯£ΧΧ Φͺα₯£ΧΧ Φͺ κ©ΧΧ έΦͺ κ«ΧΧ ά»έβ©
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πͺπ©ΈπͺπΈ... La soledad me habla de formas peligrosas.
No grita.
Susurra.
Me dice:
βsi te vas, se acaba el pesoβ,
βsi te apagas, nadie te exige seguirβ,
βsi no estΓ‘s, tampoco dueleβ.
Y mi mente, cansada,
empieza a escuchar.
Pienso en desaparecer
como quien piensa en dormir sin sueΓ±os,
en dejar de ser cuerpo,
en no tener que sostener este nombre
que a veces siento ajeno.
No es deseo de muerte.
Es hambre de descanso.
Es querer silenciar
esta voz que me acusa de existir mal.
La soledad me ofrece ideas
con forma de alivio,
y yo las miro demasiado tiempo.
Me asustan.
Me atraen.
Me avergΓΌenzan.
Hay dΓas en que estar vivo
se siente como una obligaciΓ³n injusta,
como cargar un futuro
cuando apenas puedo con hoy.
Pero incluso cuando el pensamiento cruza la lΓnea,
cuando imagino no seguir,
algo dentro de mΓ se quiebra
y resiste.
Porque si pienso en irme
es porque quise quedarme
y no supe cΓ³mo.
Sigo aquΓ.
Temblando, sΓ.
Dudando, tambiΓ©n.
Pero vivo.
Y eso, aunque no lo parezca,
todavΓa significa algo.
πͺπ©ΈπΊπΈ... Loneliness speaks to me in dangerous ways. It doesn't shout. It whispers. It tells me: "If you leave, the burden is lifted," "If you fade away, no one demands you continue," "If you're not here, it doesn't hurt either." And my weary mind begins to listen. I think of disappearing like someone who thinks of sleeping without dreams, of ceasing to be a body, of not having to bear this name that sometimes feels alien to me. It's not a desire for death. It's a hunger for rest. It's wanting to silence this voice that accuses me of existing wrongly. Loneliness offers me ideas shaped like relief, and I stare at them for too long. They frighten me. They attract me. They shame me. There are days when being alive feels like an unfair obligation, like carrying a future when I can barely manage today. But even when the thought crosses the line, when I imagine giving up, something inside me breaks and resists. Because if I think about leaving, it's because I wanted to stay and didn't know how. I'm still here. Trembling, yes. Doubting, too. But I'm alive. And that, even if it doesn't seem like it, still means something.
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