A different story

No one can save another from his pain, from his earthquakes, from his chosen fires. Each has its precipice to fall in love with, the hurricane that makes it feel as alive as devastated ends up leaving its past when it goes to the future.

We try to rescue the rest so that they do not hurt, so they do not stumble, but each one makes his decisions, each one makes his choices and we can not prevent. What do you say to the young man who lives a relationship of slings in which he alternates torment with raw passion? Turn away from someone who causes you that irreparable fire? That you give up those minutes that you will never have in your life? Do not play the tournament? Would you let yourself be persuaded by someone to tell you that? By someone suggesting you to measure, as you float over the mattress next to the most beautiful face, the most devastating body?

They need to live those skins to learn that these loves give very good poems and very bad moments, dream nights and broken days, expeditions to the unknown and the disgust of dreams when breaking against the ground, peaks and plagues. They need that destructive passion to learn something, whatever they need to learn: that no love can save them, that passion is priceless but it goes out and then exposes a rickety love of flights without motor and loss of everything. They have to lose to grow. Losing, just that. They need to lose their innocence, to taste it, to beat themselves, to undo themselves in pleasure, to riddance, to dilute one to the other, to break one another, to kill one another, to drink from the spring of their senses before stepping on solid ground.

And it hurts us. It hurts us not to be able to rescue them from what we see (or saw in us) and they, blind from saliva do not see. But we can not live for anyone, learn for them, transfer our experience with our hands as one who delivers a package to another. Each one has his time, each heart is broken in a way and each one chooses the way to be happy although in this case it is the way to stop being it. Because the fire that destroys only leaves ashes in its passage and it is necessary to assume it. Because the friend or sister who sinks in those broken something has to prove, something has to learn and you have to do it, whatever it is, let the track clear so that it crashes its way and wait. Wait until one day is already broken enough that only a friend or family member is left to grab to get out of the spiral that makes us passion when it is without a bumper. And there we will be waiting to help, as others have been with us.

I wrote this because I have a friend who goes through this and has left clues to a wonderful woman with a hole in the gut. It has been changed by a blind passion of a horse unleashed, driven by an inabarcable desire that nails the spurs and is capable of only one thing: to run towards that body. Running sleepwalker, in a sprint to a wall with a woman's name. Poor. I wish you the best of luck because you will need it. He does not know where he has gotten himself, or the most important thing, in who he has gotten himself into.