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_about wickedness.






I was eight when I first found out about World War II.

Dad never says much. No one is listening but me.
He whispers to himself: human beings are terrifying.
That's enough to understand.
What is happening in the movie we are watching is real.
As real as me and my dad, and our safe white house with ugly floors, cold in my feet. 

I am too young to notice the instant urge to eat all I can find in the kitchen.
The touch of a slide of bread crashes into their skinny bodies walking in my head.
I don't know what to do with so much weight. So I eat. To feed them, to feed my guilt.
When I can't eat more, I vomit, as if I could start over to feed them trough myself.

That day opened a hole I haven't been able to stop digging into.
I haven't found an end because it has too many. This project is just one of them.


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(Del lat. holocaustum, y este del gr. ὁλόκαυστος).
2. m. Acto de abnegación total que se lleva a cabo por amor"




I say and hear all those certainties every day, and I shout. At them, at myself.
They don't matter, nobody is listening, we can't hear.
We all are screaming, at the same time, without spaces in between,
because we ignore the patience and forgot about the magic of waiting.

We fear the look that sneaks trough and breaks into those eyes.
The only ones able to unite pain and pain and create life, where now there is only the hope of ending it. 
They have to be necessary.
Something in this world have to be necessary.
Something has to be louder above all who scream,
something has to be quieter for us to lose our tongues, 
and our lungs,
and everything that allows us to speak
and break
this beautiful silence.

Do not hear,
just listen to the silence. Please. 

We only need to see the silence.



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