To die on purpose

The picture above I do not own.

A very small K surrounded by a shield was a singular tattoo he has it in his left arm, that K which sometimes is forgotten by him.
His infantile drawings told about a depressive tendency inherited by the paternal side. His greater tragedy was to wake up two days after he listened to the paramedic voices which very slowly became deformed.
His first loving deception faced it with a transversal cut in the veins of the left wrist
His second was with transversal and diagonal cuts in the right wrist.
His 18th birthday he realized that more than two bottles of expired tablets are missing.
His psychiatric treatment temporarily blocked him to think about continuing trying it.
His passion for the music helped him to focus his energy in a few notes.
His third and fourth attempt did not surprise to anyone, there were no roses in his room.
His note did not blame anybody
His pistol was borrowed
His 27 were not his end.

Imagine to the person

I do not see future in your oracle
temptations are not libidinous

The harvested field seen from the sky
little by little is showing you the route

You, cultivate the person
yea, cultivate the person

Imagine to the person,
Imagine to the person
yea, imagine her!

Queen of the melancholic coldness,
Pacha Mama of the Andean North,
Butterfly of the oil paintings
Run away
Plebeian of the planking verse.

Secrets

This short tale was selected as "Winner" in a web contest based on writing something inspired on the picture above.

http://www.treintatrios.com.ar/fotox.php?ph=26

In the middle of the noise and the daily landscape of the Plaza Mayor of Salamanca, They were always there. They were the most important part of the history of the town and the memories that have gone away, leaving only the majestic baroque constructions at sight, finely exposed to the eyes and curiosity of thousands of tourists who got to catch, with spontaneity, semicircular arches, details in flight, or the gilded tones of the stones of those monuments surrounded in the crepuscular chaos.

They, “the Carmelite” were the true relic of the place. Many had arrived in their childhood at the convent; they learned to keep well her secrets there, turning them impenetrable, although limpid when they communicate their thoughts; sensible in their reasonings, and diaphanous in the purity of their ideals.

It was just like that in the remote passed times, and so it is today when they are seen in their carry back and forth in their afternoons. With very short steps they get lost by the Plaza Mayor, so far from the convent. Their smiling faces would seem that they announced to voices their inner joy to live day to day within a relic of religion and art. It would seem that they wanted to show us their museum that never was exposed to anybody, not only to the novices who recently arrived to offer their youth to God.

Tuesday 87
But here it is what it has happened. I caught sister Noelia spying through the slit of the museum main entrance, again. Audacious little noun, besides, everybody likes her. But I cannot trust her any longer. Above all, because Julia and Graciela are more serious, more heartless with me. How can one be so changeable? Besides, it is not a person, they are two, plus Noelia, they are three those who put me in a corner with cautious and reject me with silences. I lose the energies thinking what happened? What do they want? What do they know? How many nouns more are going to reject me?

Nevertheless, my afternoons are peaceful now, although lonely. The catechism is finished and there is not much to do; I already become bored and I feel a little jealousy when the three leave to the Plaza. It is summer, Oh, my mother! All of us would have to go out the afternoons, but no, orders are orders, I am the one who cannot leave the place.

Tuesday 92
The fatigue in the eyes is more evident now than ever. My hands’ nerves are calmed down a little by the flaxseed tea, but my absolute conscience does not allow me to lie, and I pray and pray the double than yesterday and so I think every day that breaks.

I renounce to be the chosen one. Forgive me Mother! I apostatize of my position. I do not get tired to sin, because I am only a single human being, without friends, only sisters, who are not indulgent with me, only demand of me with greater intensity that I tell the truth, and their silence is the wilder punishment than those of the medieval time.

And I know that not even after my death they will find my truth. And, I write, and write, because with their apathy they do not allow me to talk. There are secrets that do not belong to us, that existed, and, without requesting it, they name us heir. And this secret would have to be assumed by me, but they demand me to inherit it. I do not want, I am not able. The museum will remain closed.