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 ESPAÑOL PORTUGUÊS FRANÇAIS
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I have the willful conviction that, once happened, love never diminishes. Never! It changes into a growth, into an advance, into an understanding. Like everything in nature! Love doesn't cause pain because it never hurts. What causes pain is the sensation of loss as an useful trial of oppressing and suffocating whom it is thought being loved, whereas one who loves neither oppresses nor suffocates: just leaves existing... It's impossible to accept love as being something cursed, repulsive, ugly, painful, near desinterest and misunderstanding. Love doesn't come back from beauty, satisfaction, from fullfillness and infinitude. With regard to love, there is no place to repulsion, to regret, to complaints or to acts of tyranny. Love doesn't apologize; it simply prevents injury. Love is not necessity, nor dependency, it is not "want to love" or "doesn't want to love"; it is not fear, subserviency, subordination or authoritarism; it is not only desire, although it is not far from it. It is not anger, ressentment, it is not neurotic suffocation, distrust or jealousy...Love is not. Love 'are...'And any feeling that does not follow this so natural existencial fluency will be it doesn't matter wich one, but love. One who loves knows!
Since when I have consciousness of my movements, I feel myself guided by the unmistakable traces of love, sheltering it in my arteries as if it were one of the essencial elements for the alimentation of my cells. I almost feel its smell, I almost see its shape or feel its presence... I apprehend its vibrations with such an intimacy and observe its rising from so many coins of the space that I should consider love as being the own generating substance of the planet where I live, or almost as a peculiar substance permanently expelled by all animated or inanimated beings.
And these were the stars I used to contemplate! The ones that undressed my dreams, celebrated my steps, the ones that expressed the frequency and the rite of my ideals... These where the scintillations that I prefered to touch indeed. Stunning brightnesses unshakable vivaciousness, unsuspicious lights that I tried to possess and emanate from the interlineations of my dialogues, from the undisguised purposes of my approach with the ressembling. These stars of mine! fugacious, audacious, revealers. Not so popular and universalized, not so splendorous in the feature as yours, but of the same way brightening, so much attractive, transient, enigmatic, and exploding in my interior a mixture of unquietness and calm. I didn't reach or understand them so completely and I even approximate the certitude that in the moments which I exalted them, they existed indeed. As the same way as you with yours. But this meant no impediment to us from playing constantly with the virtuality of our stars. We extended the arms, we walked upright to the direction of the sight that beckoned to us, we kept the hopes of our fingers directed to the brightnesses that we claimed to palpate, even if so extremely exhausted and infinitily convicted of never being able to touch them. Inflamed, more than obstinated, we procceded. This was our unique way of living! Courageous lovers, without regress, without protection, twins in the utopia and pain, we seemed the same existentially guided beings persecuting - somnambulic - the same brilliant strength that inebriated us. And perhaps, this was what first joined us, I think. We thought we were attracted by the same kind of constellation. And it seemed to be like this indeed in the subtle, reverential moments in which we discoursed about the brightness that used to doctrinize us. Looking upwards, confluent voice, artfully prolix, perplexed facies tooken by pleasure or furor, you declaimed the name of the stars that inspired you, humming in magnificent movement a divine cerimonial of magic and fascination. Beauty, poetry, happiness... You repeated influent and amusing, consonantal gestures trembling the flesh by the alive belief in the words you pronounced, constituted goddess, powerful creater dominating the own impossibility of touching what you yourself baptized.
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