Do Women Still Wear Stockings

John William Waterhouse. Ophelia. 1894. Oil on canvas. Private Collection.

do not know what happens. I do not know why. I never thought of and I did not ask. But it happens.

happens that I forget. I forget the bad. I forget things and people that have made me suffer. Oblivious facial expressions, the feelings hidden behind the words.

words, those not, do not forget, as I do not forget birthdays and numbers, do not forget the clothes I wore on certain occasions. Much of my photographic memory.

But forget the bad. Sometimes even good. But most of all evil. Forget the people that do not mean nothing to me. Even forget the beauty that was there. I do not do it on purpose. I do not impose ... simply happens.

happens that emotions and slip off their faces and what was beginning to fade and will not return as the contours of the landscape seen from a window in a rainy day.

I forget the emotions. Forget the smiles. I forget the eyes that saw me without looking. The hands that touched me without feeling. The lips have kissed I know myself without. I forget why they are not really ever existed, have never been looked at, never been lived for what they are, but only for what you want or expect me to be. I forget why those who have never experienced the thrill of the test not remember.

forget the bad. Forget the good. But most of all evil.

Of what remains just wound or scar ...

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