|i have so much left to say to you. but you're not worth my time, breath, or inner peace.|
And that's the difference between you and me.
You may hate me, but I don't hate you.
I hate my past, and you just happen to be stuck there.
Past by Pablo Neruda
We have to discard the past
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we go on throwing down
first, broken tiles,
then pompous doors,
until out of the past
as if to crash
against the floor,
as if to catch fire,
and each new day
like an empty
There is nothing, there is always nothing.
It has to be filled with a new, fruitful
as in a well
falls yesterday's water,
into the cistern
of all still without voice or fire.
It is difficult to teach bones
to teach eyes
we do it
It was alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared.
Water water water
the past goes on falling
still a tangle
and of roots;
it has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
And with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
they change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another being has occupied our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It has gone, but if the call, we reply;
"I am here," knowing we are not,
that what once was, was and is lost,
is lost in the past, and now will not return.