reading anna k.
now, I thought. basically it is all a matter of imagination.
emerges slowly. I hear the echoes of an interior elegant, feminine, different from mine. a strange feeling, like watching the world from the other side. no charm, no power (his threat so masculine, so fierce), but anxiety, sadness, time digging in the body, the memories. the feeling of someone who touches you. as it must be observed to feel and see with new eyes at the same time? tell, build double bottoms existence.
(we believe to exist, and those are just words that grasp)
here as well, such as the hounds throw syllables, seize the moment to sink. a merchant that I feel at times. give me sleep, breathing, hands touching, and I will give it back images, names, anecdotes of adolescence ever eaten, privateers and gentlemen that run in the gestures, the stories of those around me.
but then - sottosotto - the ash remains ever dormant. what you do not want to admit. what they do, who needs these tales egotism, without stupid grudge, of sea sand? boy castles, towers of paper pulled up from the fear of being king. but the words leave no odor and does not weigh on the skin.
(the feeling of someone who touches you)
afraid to let it be observed, not to be chosen. the shame of the naked trees when the leaves envy. but just looking at the naked trees that you know the strength of their structure, and these are not, will never be more than joints. as the words of a blind man who tells the tale of his eyes.
and nothing. take it that way.
0 comments:
Post a Comment