(Little annotation that relates to another text: I realize that, when I refer to a finished unity of sense to be converted to a lineal form, I may be getting close to an image of what a life before lived—in the strict sense of its experience in time—could be like).
I’ve been trying to write something, but I can only squeeze some unconnected ideas. (It’s not that I don’t like disconnected, but in this case it has no flavor, they are incoherences produced in order to shock, with a disturbing lack of spirit).
Due to my disconnection I am able, despite the anger for my lack of passion (especially because I miss the pleasure derived from it), to appreciate much more the moments in which words flow.
I forget, and later I feel again. Dreams I remember mix with texts I’ve read and moments of my life. That is to say: all the images I see projected at the inside of my forehead provoke feelings and sensations and I cannot discriminate where they come from. They form an exciting progressive story that I feel to be living and have lived. This big tale is a unity of sense finished inside of me, I just need to give it a lineal form in words.
Last night, while dreaming. Not here, from where you are missing. Now I know dreams are not dreams and this is dreaming. I carry with me what it is to feel good, every time I get back I bring a little with me and put it here. I plant in this infertile land dreaming the seed converts it.
And what it is like being with you, to take you with me in a thousand forms: attached with velcro to my shirt, an iguana, jared, blue eyes, and peace, butterflies floating all the time, not tickling.