The black theater of love

It is interpreted.

The role of the unfortunate, the role of the spiteful, the role of the one who says "I do without", the role of the one who says "I quit", the role of the one who says "I can bear it", the role of the one who says "look what I get you've done".

The fatal role of blackmail.

It is interpreted.

The role of the afflicted, the role of the insolent, the role of the one who says “what does it matter to me”.

The role of the one who accepts the kidnapping, of the one who resists.

The role of the one who burns in adversity, of which he displays it with haughtiness.

It is interpreted.

The role of the one who says “I am happy”.

The role of the one who says “look at this sky of fire”.

The role of the chosen one.

The role of the one who proclaims “I am unique”.

The role of the enraptured contemplating.

The role of the living spellbound.

The role of the one who plays to hide what he wants to say but, by hiding it, he says it.

The role of the false reticent.

It's a labyrinth you can't get out of above.

A centrifugal drive.

It's useless but it's life to the full.

Meanwhile, it is interpreted.

The role of the one who says "I hold on", the role of the one who does not regret it, the role of the one who advances towards the abyss.

The role of the immolated.

The role of the martyr.

"Say no / say no / tie myself to the mast / but / wishing that the wind would turn it around / that the siren would rise and with its teeth / cut the ropes and drag me to the bottom / saying no no no / but following it," wrote Idea Vilariño .

You can't go back.

Sometimes, almost always, you don't want it either.

There is no request.

no complaint.

It is not a strategy (although saying it begins to be).

It's not a drama (and it's a huge drama).

All the emergency exits are boarded up but, at the same time, who wants to leave paradise?

"(...) and you released the brake / and you released the reins / (...) the bones, the confusions,

/ New England postcards, / January nights at ten, / and we rise like wheat, / yards upon yards of gold, / and reap,/ reap,” wrote Anne Sexton.

Only we always harvest alone.

The rest is the theater —very black— of love.

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