5 Wks Low Soft Cervix Pregnancy

Two years ...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I Was Wrong.

The stars Are Not wanted now: put out Every One;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now to Any dog \u200b\u200bever eats good.

WH Auden

The blue sky can still look for all ... for the author is now a distinct blue, it's a different sky. The world is even a different place al que durante 24 años conocí.

Cada día sigue amaneciendo; el sol continúa apareciendo y eventualmente perdiéndose en el horizonte. La luna sigue orbitando... las estrellas son visibles desde cualquier punto y cada minuto alguien nace en este universo. Sin embargo hay cielos aún sin estrellas y mañanas sin sol; hay tardes de viento y hojas secas, hay días sin días, horas sin minutos y razones sin motivo. Hay logros sin compartirse, alegrías esporádicas y momentos perfectos que se nublan al pensar en su ausencia; hay cielos cambiantes que parecen cubrir todo con un manto de desamparo... el frío llega bones and numb the feelings, the tears freezing cold by rubbing the skin, voice breaking, crying becomes sharp swords stuck in the throat, chest is pressed against the cold metal plate is pressed, the Breathing becomes a feat and silence fills a world of words and letters suddenly demand to be reflected in a frenzy that could be compared to a drug ... there are gray skies, no more nuance than the pain. There are pale skies that taste absence is so dark skies that threaten to overshadow the memories and smiles. There are skies that look and others prefer not to remember that perfection is attainable and complete happiness is a path.

There are steps that must be taken, there are cycles that must be met and the time does not forgive, does not stop. Today they are the words of others who say what mine can not ...

"If God Could you see him tell you how much I Hated him?"

"It's an itch That I'll never stop scratching
It's a hole That I'll never remove fill"

Dvp Sr200p Multiregion

When words are just

Words really do not stop ...

I can justify my recent lack of creativity in myriad ways, but the truth is that my muse and I decided to dedicate ourselves to write on paper, yes, as I met the letters. I went back to experience that pleasure becoming less common to slip a tip on a piece of paper and remembered how pleasant it is to write only to a reader and also could repeat over and over again that even in this blog, just write to me " but that would be another lie, all public blog readers and the author seeks to enjoy them. Wandering about I can confess that I enjoy every criticism, reaching the email and those that are published as "comment". There is no enjoyment, are pleasing to the author or not be enjoyed because they indicate that one of the objectives of the publication is true: words are read.

Returning to the pleasure of writing as such, the last 20 days have filled more than 150 sheets of paper and enjoyed every one of them, enjoying every stroke on paper and listening to the rustling of the leaf to be checked. Each letter written during the past 20 days has been extracted from the depths of the thoughts of the author, has been accompanied by countless feelings and sensations, headaches and sighs ... and I published many letters in this environment for so long that finally passed it was obvious that would happen: no more words. Gone are the words that needed to be read by someone other than the author, my words quenched their thirst to be read and the author needed to let them rest outside her eye and she needed rest.

Some words began to hurt and wants to talk it over. The words are gone painfully slow, like when you break a piece of paper and creaks and bends to resist being destroyed ... muse and found me in the silence of my room in my space. The letters began to flow and those words that hurt demanded to be reflected on paper. In the trance of the storm surge itself left me the paper and pens, inks and pencils on my desk was insufficient.

Time passed, and the quiet returned and gradually stopped hurting words ... I must confess that even if they were painful at all times pleasant, was like taking a thorn deeply nailed slowly. I reconciled with the publication and here I am, wandering about. Justifying the absence with the firm intention of leaving a testimony of what happened and is to be were done with words, is that saturated letters to the author and the letters themselves do not help much.

A letter should be a word to make sense of something and my world has always been an imperative to write, lately even I felt empathy with each letter. The letters take shape with strong lines caused an emotion as strong, weak points with strokes caused an emotion with little encouragement to be expressed but equally valuable. Learned each letter, every word I knew something and rediscovering the letters rediscovered the simple pleasure of writing on paper ... reconnect with words I met again and reconciled with the letters did me.

needed no more.