Without her it is without them, because for every ten women who die daily in Mexico one, another, the same, all of them dies; For every ten killed, only one alive feels threatened and next victim. Without her because of absence and emptiness, because of abuse and mistreatment, dead in life, murdered for being a woman and without her the empty street and the empty silence, the hollow in space and in the heart; without it the painful pause, the impossible birth, the flame without spark; without it, the cold blood, the icy wind, the unarmed eyes, the bile saliva and without it being them, purple bow in cuffs and neck, lilac scarf, bougainvillea scarf, crying makeup; without them the conversation truncates, the trunk open, the single face of evil.
Without it, literature loses perhaps more than half of the plot and without them, music runs out of La (minor or minor) and without it no life and more than half of the words are lost. Without them the landscape seems to be erased and devotion loses its golds; the pillow is bored without it and the bed becomes the victim of an eternal swell without rhythm and without sleep. Without them, the skin loses a mirror and the eyelids prefer to shut up; Without it, the pupil becomes saltier and rougher the fingertips. Without it you perceive a coarser heat and the cold underlines your masculine article, of sharp male ice or it will be that tenderness becomes utopia and loneliness a palpable memory of happiness.
See other texts by Jorge F. Hernández
The cough of the world- Home
- Another cupid
Without them there are no wings and even God is left without a mother; Without them there is no morning verb to justify the farce and many adjectives are truncated for the staging and the words are hollowed out as never before and certain protocols and ceremonies and honors to the flag or the Motherland that denies the Matria become more ridiculous. Without them there is no complete cohesion or cooperation, consensus or consent; without them there is no consideration or true coexistence; Without them, the canvases fade and the entire immense mural loses more than half of its colors and strokes, perspective and depth. Without it there are perhaps more aggressive paragraphs, offensive roles and imbalances even in the vulgarity of the banal, in passing stupidity, traveling idiocy, influential anger, plant corruption and even, the instant disappearance or the absorbing appearance of the crap.
Without it, empty and something closer to nothing. Without it, distance every moment and eternal silence in every pause. Without it, the dementia of the delinquent hurts, insane, detained or fugitive who insults, abuses, tortures, torments, kills, hits, belittles or murders all of them for being her, the one that does not fit her in hatred, the one that comes out of the liturgical confinement, the one that denies the sexist yoke, the one that actually flies over any aircraft, the one that does not require reconvention or scolding or hollow rebatingas. Without it, you don't really walk or go anywhere; without it, you do not sleep with sleep or wake up the sun; Without them, the moon goes out and nature is like cardboard scenery. Without them there is no real vein between so much a liar and without it there is no look or diopter.
She, they, those, some, those, some, all ... Without all that are ones like those, those and better yet, some or specifically those or they are not or will not be, nor would we be what we were or were and without it you are not what you think you are or want to be or want. Without desire is to be without her. Without illusion it is to walk without them, that without it you neither speak in the plural nor walk in parallel. Without her or them, better silence and feel the emptiness, check the infinite weight of the absence ... And honor the most respectful silence for the ten they kill daily, they all victims and possible next. Silence, which at least urges condolences, hurts even from a distance and even if it is really impossible to get to feel what she and they feel. Silence of flowers in the rain and cloud silence, silence of names painted on a cross ... Silence of mountain far away and of the sea at night, silence of eyes open to emptiness and bloody mouth painted red and silence of purple bow , tied in the ink with which thousands of women live more than ever to claim the dead and honor the dead, to celebrate and change the opprobrious curtain of intolerance and abuse, violence and stealthy terror with which we gradually we approach every day - ten souls a day - to the inconceivable abyss of being too soon without them or without it.
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