t occurred to me once or twice (it’s occurring to me quite often lately) that I get an idea of having thought of doing something and suddenly not remembering if I did it or not. It can be the most stupid thing, for example the other night I was having a shower and shaving my legs. My idea had been to shave my armpits first only I couldn’t remember if I had. I hadn’t… unexpectedly, the image comes to my head: the armpit, the razor, my hand passing it over … that’s it. My doubt is if the image that came to my head was a memory or a pure mind action that would replace the physical one. Because my armpit was hairless then and I, at the moment of not being sure of having done it, I was pretty not sure, almost certain.
I wish I could get deeply into the subject, start to experiment a little. But then something makes me forget, makes it an unimportant subject (as if a topic like that could become an unimportant one, the possibility of making our thoughts become action, with no physical mediation).
Touch is nice,” she says, trying to diminish the impact of the lack.
ow does it feel when one has a body but the other doesn’t? Communication turns fluid through any ethereal channel and, even passion remains (carnal passion, remembrance of sex—or something like it—from other unimaginable realms), they cannot touch.
he room was endless, for which, once we inside, we couldn’t easily get out. It was two trying to reach each other through words. Through words we should share are love and passion. This lasted years. Nobody knew we were there, for not one soul interrupted the game until we were finished–for somehow we got to an end in this.
What if I were a neutral point? Would it help?”
“Yes … it would. Can you try that?”
At the center of all things, my lives crossing me like rays. When I write from this point, I get the greatest benefits.
I thought it might be interesting to publish books of my blogs. For now, I’m designing the covers. It took me some time to think of a system in which each book were quickly identified with its blog. By the way I’m using my drawings, that were always there, as if waiting for it. Processing …
t doesn’t matter … I had no desire to leave. No one could deny me my right to wait for you, to see life as a mere passing of characters in my face, as a time between you and you. It is my secret. Come to think, it makes no difference if I shout it or draw it on the walls: they cannot see what they don’t know.
In people I find scattered pieces of you. Pearls. They let me take them for they belong with me. Out of them, I put together a picture that I know is for you. Your own gateway to this hell.