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Because I wrote about absences

Today I came thinking while walking in the rain, came to therapy, had assumed it was a stubborn and I never take things seriously when they are for me. I recommend re good to others, but those same recommendations do not apply to me.

I thought about why I always look I looked or absent men, those that are difficult and long time make me sad and happy when they are with me. I came to my mind an image of my dad walking in the rain, I think with the mud boots and in between, I watched from the window inside my house, do not really remember his face, just remember that I was so happy to see that coming. Do not think I have many memories of my dad, then I think I understood or understood, in part, why I sought or are seeking those men, I think I repeat that pattern of father absence, but with the fantasy of breaking the scheme and make they become established, protect me, I care, and assume the role expected from my dad, but finally the absence and loneliness is repeated, because they never cease to be absent and distant, though they say they love me.

The difference is that now I see clearly and do not blame my dad for that, he did as best he could from where he lived, worried and concerned about us. When I was sick and we first spoke on the phone, he was the first she cried and could not continue speaking, my dad has always been sensitive and crying, I'm sick of whining and ultra-sensitive, especially in recent times, my mom Instead, it is also sensitive, but is stronger, try not to show their grief for us not to crumble and I have some of that, but the extreme sensitivity of inherited from my father, I think.

What I felt today and I thought rather that I missed the father to protect, which gives the feeling that anyone can be against you, but he will not leave your embrace anything happen to you, I would have liked to have a dad stronger, more authoritative, defend me in school, but do not remember that, my dad was probably the role he was destined to men until recently, supplier, and made the best he could. It's good to have parents who now move to the children that walk, you make them sleep, but also care for the mother and child. I always felt my mother was strong, did not see it contained by my dad and I think that's what I want, I want to contain, I will not be continent, I want to be contained.

Yep, that's true, after living a while I realized that I want to contain, I want to hear, that I seek, I require presence, want to be there and are there for me, not only in a metaphorical sense, I present, real and concrete. Such as a liquid that needs to be put into a pot, I do, I want to embrace, to be cared for and protected me.

is a good discovery for a rainy day. Sigrid

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Enrique Lihn

Now that maybe in a year of quiet,

think: poetry helped me to this:

could not be happy, that I was denied, but

wrote

wrote: I was the victim

of begging and pride mixed

also

and executed a few readers;

hand held out doors than ever, I have never seen;

a girl fell in another world at my feet.

But I wrote: I had this strange certainty,

the illusion of having the world in his hands

- what more perfect illusion! as a Baroque Christ with all his

unnecessary cruelty.

wrote, my writing was like weeds flower

unleavened but flowers in short,

the daily bread of uncultivated land:

a shell of thorns and roots.

life take these words as a child

glitter, pebbles by the river:

magic things in a perfectly useless

but you always come back to renew their charm.

The kind of madness with an old flying

after pigeons

imitating them was given to me instead of being used for something.

writing I condemned all

doubted my real existence

(days of my writing, solar abroad.)

all who served and those who were served

will say that because I wrote it

and death means working closely

, steal a few secrets.

Originally, the river is a vein of water

-there, for a moment, even in this high-

then at the end, a sea that no one sees

of those Brace life.

Because I wrote I hate embarrassing, but the sea

part of my writing itself:

the surf line in a verse I

foam I can reiterate poetry.

I was sick, no doubt

and not just insomnia,

also fixed ideas that made me read

with obscene attention to a few psychologists,

but I wrote and crime was lower,

paid him to write verse by verse,

because a word that fits into the abyss

comes a little intelligence

dark and light that many monsters are not executed.

Because I was not home wrote executioner

and I got carried away by the love of God and accepted

men

were gods did not want me as a clerk or poverty

seemed outrageous

or power

a desirable thing and washed my hands and I fouled

or my best friends were virgins or had

as Friend

a Pharisee or anger despite

wanted to disrupt my enemy.

But I wrote and I'm on my own,

because I wrote because I wrote I am alive. Sigrid