People seem to persist in perceiving the opposite of what I mean and this is understandable as the fortuitous contrast between how I think and how I move, often seem a mockery of one another. But what I would tell these same people is that intuition is the best form of the loving knowledge and sometimes, reason doesn’t have a primary role in our lives. I recognize that I think with my intuition and move with my heart, an attitude that tends to give greater importance to inner life than to reality. But that’s just me. With my senses dazed, I’m like love in crescendo, I’m like love when it’s in serious trouble. Sometimes I tend to remain in a state of undefined inertia, other times I move at an incredible speed. Fickle, I’m looking for stability; untamed, I’m looking to be conquered; deeply touched by love, I’m impossible. I can’t admit to appreciate what is not very difficult to obtain. Such is love. It leads me to explore everywhere, such as inside of myself, I can implore without praying, cry without tears, impose without demanding… Love is in me. It started as a seemingly benign disease with space for adjustable remission but now it has become a chronic disease. With the symbolic language of the eyes, I see love change into the brightest star of my boreal sky, with its powerful and life-giving fluid that makes me lose control over myself. With its magnum of sensations, suddenly it feels like a flood that engulfs me in a large wave and swallows me completely, an earthquake whose epicenter is located in the innermost part of my body. An electrical current stimulates my heart muscle rhythmically as if it were a runaway pacemaker and suddenly, erupting out of my shell, I start feeling an exaggerated, vicious, lush, flaming sexual desire. The palms of my hands change into something like a slug, the swelling can not stop until all energy is released… Love, with its macrophage heart that can cause serious prejudice in people however, charms or spellbinds me. Love is always beneficial to me. Love is like most insects, which can live free or as parasites. The point is not to stifle love, but know how to live with it in harmony. This is my mantra. Love is as silky as a rose, but it has thorns. Its fragrance is sweet as honey, but it can also pierce you like a bee with its stinger. The subsequent step to the beat of passion is something like alcoholic delirium, a burning sensation in the stomach, the pharynx. A light irradiation, pyromaniacal, a purple color on a livid cheek, like an indelible bruise that betrays me. Love perfumed with sex provides a renewed enthusiasm. When this happens, I start shaking like a leaf, shaking like a fish in a net , shaking uncontrollably. I’m almost in a trance. I’m the queen of the hive, and my whole being betrays a provocative attitude to the love challenge. As an engine, the flames spread through my body wreaking havoc on my skin, I feel like I’m exploding inside, it’s something indefinable, indescribable… Lust, love, passion are in me, I just do not share the same ecological space, I’m alive. I am above the limit of perpetual snow and yet my body is like hot spring waters. Hour after hour watching my work of genius, making every day a special day, the queen bee becomes a busy bee, carrying out the work which is necessary for the maintenance of love. But sometimes love becomes pessimistic when the passion fades and a total indifference comes over me. I don’t feel any inclination towards it any longer. My defense mechanism starts alone as though it knows when it’s time to react. Love is always on the other side of the mountain, as if a retreat in escaping danger! Love takes off masks. Sometimes, Love does not need anyone except myself, like the singing of the Andalusian gypsies, who do not need the accompaniment of the guitar. Love is like the ups and downs of life, the carousel of my days! Up on the vitalized rotating wheel that transports me, love is the iron scorching the subject that holds me… I can feel an invisible substance all around me that volatilizes into the air and produces a small explosion in the heart of the recipient and then, I start hearing a boom boom, I show out my prismatic antennae and suddenly I see a sparkling spot covering my visual space. Love is there after all. Love is also tragic, it recklessly lunges me about and it bites my skin again, burning strongly. I am not satisfied with a consolation prize, I want it to give me everything and in return, love always looks for the top prize. And it succeeds. I become a sculptor, forming the most beautiful work that my eyes have ever seen, an obelisk of infinite pleasure. Unrepentant, I persist in being a sinner, but love is forgiving. It’s easy to forgive love ,even when it hurts because it is aware that like me, love is an expert in disguise. To forgive me is to forgive itself and therefore, at all times, it feels compelled to bestow grace. Love never gets carried away by the feeling of guilt, providing hints, who forewarns that is not a traitor if forearmed… I am an inveterate sadomasochistic psychic. I manifest pleasure in torturing my mind, experiencing, reliving the most beautiful moments of my affair, while, in the distance, I must endure unsustainable feelings of loneliness. It’s not true what they say about love, nor what they say about me. Yet, we pursue an ideal and incessantly wander around searching for the unattainable, it’s always a way to feel alive. Altruism that leads us to sacrifice our own interests for others’ interests is not made for us. Time, that implacable avenger, is responsible for reward or it punishes each of us according to our merits. The atmosphere is overwhelmed, the intensity of waves of light appears to decrease, but I do not intend to retain the energy of their radiation.