I didn't tell you

no te dije

by Florencia Suárez @florenciasrz

702
18
0

(Automatically translated from Spanish)

What is not said resembles time, cycles, distance, narrowness and remoteness, seasons and their behaviors. Transitional, almost: the "perhaps" of autumn and the "maybe" of spring. Summer, winter; day and night. A journey without stops, train stations that pass one after the other. A gaze, which lingers in one of them, waiting for what is truly thought, what is truly desired.
In what we don't say lies hidden the necessary time, the purpose of waiting and silence, wisdom. In what we don't say, fear, pride, and shame (which can completely nullify a message and its circumstances) also take refuge. In what we don't say, things intended to be live in potential.
“I didn't tell you” echoes the possibilities that disappear when silence is left unsaid. It speaks of the past and the future. Of spaces and of us... avoiding the words we didn't know how to use.
-
The postcard system proposes different stages: night, day, and the four seasons (in their equinox and solstice phases). A fanzine unfolds the texts and proposes the journey, which culminates (or begins) with a blank space for writing the necessary words.
.
.
.
( I didn't tell you is a proposal that I started months before the pandemic and isolation. May these days of still, possible and vanished worlds find us saying the things we didn't say).

(...)

The signs of avenues that were left unnumbered, the names of the streets we didn't play with, the cars we didn't count as they passed, the afternoons that waited for us and the stars that remained lit.
The old mirrors in some cafe that missed being a reflection, the buses that stopped at the corner where we weren't, the traffic lights held up so we could see the rain, the train stations and their clocks with hands turning around and around.
The white napkins without any writing, the birds that would fly right above us. All the laughter the air didn't hear, and the silences that weren't there either (those that wouldn't bother us).
The exchange of glances that a thousand unknown languages would not decipher (eternal moments), and all those unrevealed mysteries.
The dry leaves that fell to the ground and that we did not gather (to hide them forever)
in some book). The springs that did not enter through the tiny window (of a kitchen that overlooked the garden).
The covers we didn't see, and the stories that weren't printed. The pages we didn't talk about, and the unvisited lands. Shop windows filled with objects, so we could read their colors, their shapes, their beauty and their ugliness. And sidewalks of loose paving stones that the neighborhood didn't hear.
The trivialities and magnificence of this world, the places where we would pause to assimilate new words. All the poems we didn't write, the ones we would invent together.
adding parallel lines. Your turn and mine, one verse and the other, saying the same things and magnifying them twice as much.
The time divided into days that would find us looking at the sky and the big plans we would daydream about when night fell (to wake them up in the morning).
The water for the mates that turns to steam as the sun continues to set, and that modest house lost in a neighborhood that waits empty.
In it, the melodies and beams of light that we did not touch still reverberate, the songs in disjointed words and our prayers, in the language of the spirit.
All these things live in what we didn't say. All these things are and linger, on the edge of our lips.
.
in what we didn't say
~

Los carteles de avenidas que quedaron sin numerar, los nombres de las calles con que no jugamos, los autos que no contamos al pasar, las tardes que nos esperaron y las estrellas que persistieron encendidas.
Los viejos espejos de algún café que extrañaron ser reflejo, los colectivos que pararon en la esquina donde no estuvimos, los semáforos erguidos para que veamos la lluvia, las estaciones de tren y sus relojes con agujas girando y girando.
Las servilletas blancas sin escribir, los pájaros que cruzarían justo encima nuestro. Todas las risas que el aire no escuchó y los silencios que tampoco fueron (esos que no nos incomodarían).
El cruce de miradas que mil lenguajes desconocidos no descifrarían (instantes eternos), y todos esos misterios sin revelar.
Las hojas secas que se deshicieron en el suelo y que no juntamos (para esconderlas perpetuamente
en algún libro). Las primaveras que no entraron por la ventana diminuta (de una cocina que daría al jardín).
Las portadas que no vimos, y las historias que no se imprimieron. Las páginas de las que no hablamos y los terrenos sin visitar. Vidrieras llenas de objetos, para que leamos sus colores, sus formas, lo lindo y lo feo. Y veredas de baldosas sueltas que el barrio no escuchó.
Las nimiedades y la magnificencia de este mundo, los lugares en que nos detendríamos para asimilar palabras nuevas. Todos los poemas que no escribimos, los que inventaríamos juntos
sumando líneas paralelas. Tu turno y el mío, un verso y el otro, diciendo las mismas cosas y engrandeciéndolas por dos.
El tiempo dividido en días que nos encontraría mirando el cielo y los planes tan grandes con que soñaríamos despiertos al caer la noche (para despertarlos en la mañana).
El agua para los mates que se hace vapor mientras el sol sigue cayendo, y esa modesta casa perdida en un barrio que espera vacía.
En ella reverberan, todavía, las melodías y los haces de luz que no tocamos, las canciones en palabras desarticuladas y nuestras oraciones, en el idioma del espíritu.
Todas estas cosas viven en lo que no dijimos. Todas estas cosas son y se demoran, al borde de los labios.
.
en lo que no dijimos
~

Words are sometimes found "unintentionally," and when that miracle happens, sometimes the spaces, the interword gaps, so large... all those things we didn't say.
.
It's about what we say and what we choose to keep to ourselves. It's about how we say it and the forms we haven't yet found in the 21st century.