Té de hierba buena

Esta es mi casa, voy a encender  la chimenea, chimenea suena a chinear ahora que lo pienso ( interrupción absurda con sonrisa espontánea), había un sillón muy grande con una cobija encima, pero preferí sentir la manera. -¿Y esos azulejos? -Los hice con mi abuela a ella le gusta mucho Klimt- seguido por un sorbo largo de hierba buena y una sonrisa tímida. Nunca había estado ahí y ya me sentía en casa. Levante la cabeza y ya no estaba, volveré en 10 párpados enamorados entrelazados, voy por el 4.

2:22 am  •  1 August 2014
When I speak of poetry I am not thinking of it as a genre. Poetry is an awareness of the world, a particular way of relating to reality. So poetry becomes a philosophy to guide a man throughout his life…. [With poetry, one] is capable of going beyond the limitations of coherent logic, and conveying the deep complexity and truth of the impalpable connections and hidden phenomena of life.
― Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair (1987)
1:45 am  •  11 July 2014  •  1,265 notes
Why do we always choose the opposite of what we want? I think, because we don’t want to be dependent. When two people love each other, they don’t love in the same way. One of them is strong, the other is weaker. And the weaker is always the one who loves without reckoning, without reservation. It feels now as if I’ve awakened from some kind of dream after some other kind of life. For some reason, I always offered resistance. I fought againist something. I defended myself, just as though I’d had someone else inside me saying: don’t give into anything, don’t go along with anything or you’ll die.
The Sacrifice, dir. Andrei Tarkovsky, 1986.  (via heartvoyage)
1:44 am  •  11 July 2014  •  1,993 notes