I’m a drunk. But I’m a drunk not because I drink, but because of the way I think. I think like a drunk. I sit and listen to Julio Jaramillo speak of the cruelty of love, and it gets to me. I picture myself smashing my glass of wine against the table, yet my alcohol intake has never gone beyond the sip of beer I had as a kid.

As a kid, I recall that my mother would play the Julio Jaramillo songs, and although I knew nothing about love, for I was only 11 or 12, I showed an appreciation for his songs. I remember asking Maqui, one of our neighbors, if I could borrow her Julio Jaramillo CD. She must have been perplexed. “What would a kid want with Julio Jaramillo’s music?” Fact is, his voice, complemented with the sounds emanating from a guitar proved too much for me to ignore.

It was a couple of years later that I learned Julio had been a drunk himself. In fact, Julio died a drunk. He was a drunk who sang of love. The lyrics to his songs express my sorrow. If he indeed felt what his songs manifested, I can see why he was drunk… why he died one… the pain that comes with the end of a relationship is inmense.

Translation:

Life is one blow after another; one is left with no choice but to roll with the punches. When a man loses the woman he adores, however, his pain becomes unbearable to the point of begging his lord for a merciful death. Unlike such a man, I would not to allow my sorrow to live past your last thoughts of me. Right now you’re mine, and you’re all I have, but the instant our bond is broken I will rip out my own heart to spare myself of a more tragic fate. Nothing could be worse than living a long life without you, consumed by misery one tiny bit at a time.

I wish a happy 10 de Mayo to all mothers like my own; mothers who are willing to devote a great part of their life to ensure the well being of those they give birth to.

Translation:

I had been roaming the world on the verge of hopelessness. I was becoming convinced that love was a thing to be hidden away in the vault most commonly known as the past. However, when you entered my life I sensed in your eyes and voice a warm promise. I was brought out of my twilight like dusk is brought off the sea in the wee hours of a new, radiant day. Our hands came together and my heart was given life. I believed again in the beauty of fate, all thanks to you, my miraculous glass doll.

Translation: La Cama Vacía

Resting at the gloomy hospital where he had been interned, agonizing in his somber bed and surrounded by a silence only expected in cemeteries, expressing himself in the tenderly way that (whether with or without effort) had always characterized him, a sick friend wrote me the following words:

My dear friend, I wish that upon your receipt of this letter you find yourself in good health and that the best of luck is with you wherever you may be. Myself, I can’t say that I’m feeling better because to the contrary, I’m nothing but a skeleton that horrifies its own bearer.

This letter is to request that if you’re ever able to come and keep me company to please do so. I come to you with this plead, for you were the one who ever showed the strongest feelings for me. I’m sad and lonely, and I cry incessantly. I feel unloved; everyone seems indifferent to me. I thought I had many friends, but none have stopped by to see me.

I must say that I finally have come to agree with you. I see that in my time of need all so called friendships are nothing but illusory. When one’s in good health and fortune, one’s got an infinite number of friends. However, if fate is so cruel so as to place one in an abysm, we come to realize that it’s all a farse… there’s no such thing as a loyal friend.

Having said that, I bid you farewell. Receive a loving hug from me, the friend who has always cared for you. Say hello to your mother for me. Show her a lot of love and overwhelm her with tender words. Take good care of her, for not all of us are as lucky as you are in still having a mother. If only you knew what it’s like to have to live without one!

When Sunday came, I hurriedly made my way into the hospital where my sick friend had been receiving care. I headed to the room where I knew he had been staying. Once in his room, I looked around and I was overtaken to see his bed… but not him.

Translation:

If I walk away from you, I do it only because I’ve come to understand that I’m in your life the dark cloud that foreshadows precipitation. I must walk away so that you stand a chance of bettering your life. Go on to lead a happy life. In the meantime I’ll try to suppress all memories of you. I must return to being the disappointed man who seeks the love of a woman in spite of previous bad experiences. The blue sky — where dreams once had their home — has vanished. Desolation has returned to me. I’m disillusioned.

Translation:

To this day your voice haunts me and the warmth of your kisses is still felt. I carry you very deep within because of how beautiful you made life for me at one point. Nonetheless, knowing that another man is now able to kiss you, my chest is filled with rage and rancor.

Love and hate is what I feel for you. A love resulting from the beautiful moments we spent together. A hatred that came about when you broke my heart. I hate you and I love you because you’re who made of life a miracle and a disappointment. You’re loved and scorned by me. Both to a full extent.

Wanting to rid my mind of you, I sought in bottles of wine the cure to broken-heartedness. In addition, I sought in other lips the fire that would dissipate the warmth that your lips left behind. It’s a lost cause, though. Neither alcohol nor kisses are to detach you from me. I’m to carry you within for hatred… for love… forever.

Translation:

Tonight I crave her presence. I’m willing to forgive her for all the pain she inflicted on me, if only she’d return to me. I wouldn’t care what people would say of this. Why should I care? People never cease to say things.

Mine is a self-devouring passion, as she’s all I ever think of. Yet, she does not even suspect that I want her back. This heart of mine names her with its wounded lips. At night, my pain becomes stronger, for a pain-inducing butterfly passes in front of me, further deepening my wounds.

Because I’m surrounded by my friends, tonight should be a jolly night, but I can’t cope with my pain. Finding myself lonely, aware that she’s not to be with me anymore, I ask incessantly…

What have you given me, darling? I’m sad day and night. I spend my nights roaming your neighborhood, passing in front of your house, always staring at it. This passion that is killing me and the pain that I cannot overcome leads me to ask, “When will I stop having to endure the torment that is having loved you and lost you?”