Les Miserables

There have been days in my life when I felt blessed. Days when my hope was so strong and vivid that it was not only a hope but a conviction. And I felt safe.

In my belief, or recklessness, I gave everything. Thinking that giving everything I deserved everything.

But in this life nothing is due to you. Even when perhaps you deserve it. But who deserves it? How many sins, how many mistakes did I make?

My soul has been miserable and therefore I remain miserable. Miserable is one who cannot achieve pure love. There were moments when I wasn’t loved when I loved. And moments when I was loved but I didn’t love.

This second condition is not much better than the first because you feel all the misery of your soul.

You are not able to grasp the miracle offered, you are not able to accept it. you would like with all your heart, try, but your feeling remains miserable because it is not love.

Compassion towards the other, towards yourself; but that feeling between the throat and the heart, Holy Heaven, when I felt it was unmistakable!

They say there will surely be the right person. Sometimes I think it’s gone, not like a train, when you can take the next one.
It has passed as something I didn’t know how to deserve enough.

And love is strange, it brings both glory and misery: the glory in feeling it, the
misery of failing
to hold him in your hands, like water, or sand.

But above all, is miserable when you see love it is not for you. When it looks at you but can’t see you.

I wrote something six years ago, and I still feel the same misery of not being able to deserve it enough.

“We are miserable, it is not for us the light of the sun; love is a feeling that looks at us as it passes by, he doesn’t want get his hands dirty with us, we doesn’t worth so much.

For us it is the harlotry, and to snatch shreds for survival from your rich and laden tables; you, nobles who deserve everything: you deserve a life as is proper, a title and respect.

We are bastards, like the nameless dogs, and you can throw bread at us and feel good, but you must know that here we fumble and drown;

and our women look at your ladies made respectable by a name, while ours are illegitimate and, for a name or a title, not “countess” or “marquise”, but “Mrs” only, they would give an arm, or a leg.

Belonging to someone, finding our place in this world. But we do not even belong to ourselves, nor to society, nor to God, because it is not for us God, are not for us the stars … ”