#lulowritesdown

[magic-magallanes]

The Rhetorical Bow by QueenArba on DeviantArt

At last I had the opportunity to take my drawings to a digital platform with the help (indirect help) of Jetxe, who left his old drawing tablet in my house for years and we brought him back to life along with the help of Sophie, my sister. So, I used to be an excellent archery shooter during 2017 and I dropped out of that hobby for lack of money, but that's how I looked back then. I had made the uniform by hand with what little I had. And, in that year, I had red hair. Regarding the vague background execution, #sorrynotsorry but after this experience I realized that I am a better landscaper in the traditional way. Special thanks to CUDA.

[magic-magallanes]

The Godson’s Vote

Here I find myself treading the asphalt between life and death, death is the end. She looks at me and lies to me, she promises me that I will be able to find them, see them, disturb them, talk to them.

Will I ever be free? Free of my honorable lineage to which it corresponds, who with his maddening melodies accompanies you to persecute me.

We live in the dwelling place of death. She waits for me every day, the paintings in the living room observe me with a harassing mood. I am writing to you because you and I share more than you realize.

Two younger brothers walk the same timeless, infinite path. There is no time that separates me from his mistakes and his actions, his unspeakable efforts to conquer the life that finally succumbed to him. Its mirage makes me shudder. Tell me, will I end my days being like you? Is fate really that imminent?

Every day my body is used, my stomach is empty and it roars in disgust, my hands are tied with chains. Oh ... The chains, the humiliating survival that I am conditioned to exercise day after day.

You lived a life without happiness. Happiness that was taken from your hands ... as tied as mine. Papers that were signed, bricks that were stacked, the sun went down and a change forsaken us with a pale white night. A white night that covered this beautiful city with a blanket of plague and violence.

My heart has crossed the river, she saw in her dreams how you also went away from us. Tell me, are you happy beyond? Have you come to see the golden coast, splendid drawing on the horizon? Are the others there with you? Is that why we are all so alone here?

I am writing to you with a promise. Two younger brothers who walked the path crossed the river ... And together they saw the sun fall on the fresh water. When everything ends, we will all be together watching the sun fall on the fresh water.

Free hands clapping at sunset, wet sand under our feet, abundant food on our table, fire in the sky, fire of life and never of death. Never again death. That place exists, we were there at birth like them before our creation.

I am writing to inform you that soon we will all be there to see the sun go down.

[magic-magallanes]

The Slum Angel

With your eyes blindfolded and your shirt well pressed, you will fly to see you go up. Dance, my life, inhale that perfume of the holy slum. Hairs and fungi grow from his back. The nape of his neck has scabs that itch, but he laughs confidently every time one more grows. Why is there more and more?

   This is my city. It has hands and feet just like everyone, but it prefers to crawl, thus germinating that dirty smell. It's that greasy hand, that oozing heart of pain, the baby's tummy roaring with hunger, that three-legged dog. It germinates and grows. Oh my love, your walls used to not be that high.

[magic-magallanes]

The city center is upholstered with feathers. Their faces in the mirror look gray, flat. As abstract as flying silhouettes, they throw their own reflection on the pavement because they want more. On his knees on the great avenue, he will bleed rivers of tears when his hand touches the broken pieces. The feathers of the wings of the most beautiful angel will fly. Adapt. And she will cut off her wings to give them to you.

The Slum Angel

[magic-magallanes]

From the dark tree two monarchs are born, capable of ruling over the minds of all men. They sit behind our ears and with their songs spawn their bacilli in us, so deliciously low, so captivating, so virulent. Overabundant with power, they can still only alter reason. And, like a cancer, there is no plague because we do not infect anyone. Only one of the three fruits is capable of reaching the heart. The living room stands up to welcome the firstborn. The plague, the blackness, the bitterness. The blame.

The Deaf-Mute Twins Part III

[magic-magallanes]

The Deaf-Mute Twins Part II

  Apathy and envy are two deaf-mute twins, of uncompromising temperament. Exasperating not having anyone to blow up with, since it's not anyone's fault. We are not even able to blame ourselves, because it would not be true. How dangerous it is to be born empty and to be a container that never ends up filling. This is what so many years of misunderstanding feel like. A sad queen of a kingdom without people.

  A throne built with the blood of two icy skinned twins, my entourage of headless papers, the funeral pathos that envelops my crown with an aura of poor redundancy. Diamonds and jewels pearly of contradiction, that's how it feels to be young. By choosing my journey before the journey chose me, I became an executioner. I cut off the heads of my sisters, before waiting to see how time took care of that. I decided to dirty my hands in the name of an ignoble cause

[magic-magallanes]

The Deaf-Mute Twins

  Damage has never before been purged. From my person, from my hands and from my mouth, there was never such relief. It is fickle, light. The pain of others can sometimes be like a feather, at least as I see it from my consciousness. And as far as empathy is concerned, no, I'm not a woman who practices it. That brings me to our middle daughter. It is neither the greatest nor the least, it is apathy.

   Perhaps haughtiness is born from apathy. That involuntary arrogance can become a very cold and lonely throne, where we unintentionally position ourselves there. Years go by and nobody surprises us, nobody lives up to us. Who could be our first vestige of empathy, feeling identified with someone different from ourselves. Who could have gone through what we went through.

[magic-magallanes]

The Bartholomew’s Giant Part IV

   I was grateful that the nightmare hadn't continued. My strength was shattered and my heart still did not want to believe the injury I had suffered. I looked for a way to cover such a desecration with a veil and justify that lack with the sad excuse of the love that I felt. I dressed. I hugged him. How pathetic. - I want to be your girlfriend, I want us to be together. - I already have a girlfriend, this cannot be known. But in the future, I promise that we will be together.

   How much lie, how much dirt. The low shutters of his dining room let in a fine halo of white light, which illuminated our interlocking hands. He got up from the couch, sat down at his computer desk, and started playing, ignoring me. As if he hadn't told me anything relevant, as if he hadn't done anything remarkable.

   What the hell had just happened? They used me, they insulted me, and although it seems incredible, what I suffered the most was having been abandoned just a few minutes later. What was I to do so freely now that the damage was done? I left his apartment, guarded by the graffiti on Bartholomew Miter Street, who seemed to look at me with pity. I got to the train tracks, and despite coming home that day, a part of me still hasn't come back.