The voice in the oubliette

Ella hablaba, me explicaba, me contaba, suspiraba resignada. Yo no hacía más que fumar y preguntar entre bocanadas "¿de veras?" Y ella afirmaba, suspiraba resignada, y empezaba de nuevo a explicarme, a contarme. Y yo escuchaba y pensaba lo extraño que me resultaba todo, en especial mi falta de emoción. No me sentía ni asombrada, ni preocupada, ni consternada. No hacía más que fumar y preguntar de vez en cuando "¿de veras?" Ella terminó de hablar. Yo terminé de fumar. Bajamos, volvimos a nuestos asuntos. No dijimos nada. Eso fue hace unos 4 horas. Hace 10 minutos mientras pensaba en que ponerme para salir, me sorprendió una lágrima. Rodó y rodó y rodó por mi mejilla. Y yo me detuve a escribir esto.

Cuando ella se murió

I know you probably don't care but I just need to let this out: one of my college's teachers is dying. I'm so sad, she was my mentor, she's the reason why in doing my M.A on Spanish literature... the passion she showed towards literature was unique. The only other teacher that I respected as much as I respect her was Volker, and he died a year ago. I'm so pissed of...Volker died and now she is dying too...it's not fair, she's such a great woman...just like Volker was such a great man What pisses me of the most (besides the fact that good teachers are the ones that died instead of the assholes ones) is that I can't see her... there's no way I can go back home soon enough to see her... I can't see her and tell her how important her classes were to me, how much I admire her. I won't be there to say it, just like I wasn't there to say it to Volker... I'm trying really hard not to cry as I write this but I just cant help it... I feel so...