Scattered diatribes of Philo

They say we use aproximately six metaphors per minute, 
unintentionally, because we can barely think of anything without seeing a picture of something else.
Shakespeare is partly to blame for this, as with so many other marvelous things.
I use them intentionally,
Because I don't know how to say out loud the things I am feeling.
Can we communicate forever like this, thinking we know exactly what we mean,
but living in constant suspense, in the (un)likely event of being mistaken?
In the hope that we are not?
Andrés Neuman has compared the grammar of love to that of translation, 
because we must continously translate the language of those we love.
It is even in the word itself- tongue.
What better metaphor for love, anyway?
We speak in tongues. We dance around our shadows. We misunderstand.
We meet in the middle, we coincide, we translate each other.
But are we metaphorical?
tu vis quelque part entre douleur et douceur
mais je te suis quand même
But sometimes I simply throw words at you, without looking back to see if they stick,
if they even fit you, if you want them, if you'll take them.
And of course I am not really talking about words.

Folding stories ( Are We There Yet?)

I dream and I think it is life.
You were there, I was there; there is nothing unreal about it.
I felt it, so why do I need to end my sentences with a rethoric question mark.
It is my story, I can leave it out if I choose to.
I wrote it when I first stumbled upon him. 
A protagonist with the power to rip the reader from somewhere else,
and glue her to the pages of his adventures.
The story evolved behind my eyelids, it grew at the back of my head,
and though I mused, and though I enjoyed indulging in the plot,
I never thought that one day it might be indulging me.
Imagination is funny that way.
It seems real in the way that only the surreal can.
It fills your mind and leaves no space for the mundane.
Hijacking even the most banal details, inflating them to the point of absurdity.
You were breathing, you were smiling, you were there.
It seemed like a miracle.
And all I could think was are we there yet?
So that I could kiss you.
To finish the story.

sketches and gravity

Why is emotional gravity more attractive than emotional persistance?
We are constantly aiming for the top, working hard; striving to be ambitious and self-made.
But we still believe that the only way to really get love is to stumble on it.
It lies in wait, ready to jump out and drown us at any time. 
A flood of Biblical proportions.
Love is something that happens to us, not something we do.
Is this the illusion that causes the greatest restlessness for modern man?
The one thing we can't buy, order, or get promoted to, no matter how hard we try.
And yet it seems we crave this, we long to be powerless.
To surrender to the algebra of emotional Russian roulette.
We give in to the myth.
Hoping someone will be drawn to us, so that we can finally say
"I was drawn especially for you".
And when you say it, it becomes true.
You better pray he does not come with an eraser.

khamsa fi ainek

"Five fingers in your eye"
Repeated over and over, more an antropaic mantra than aspirational, 
more for personal persuasion than to ward off any potential aggressor.
You may say I am a cynic, shaking your head slowly, thinking to yourself,
'she'll never find peace with that metaphorical gun underneath her pillow'
Because protecting yourself from something only slightly probable may seem counter-productive
You may think me naïve, childish, in my quest to avoid potential, future damage.
And I tried to shed that extra layer; that thick, slippery skin.
I burnt the pages I wrote, buried the hatch, kept my eyes focused on the horizon without looking back.
But the past caught up and snatched me back, kicked me in the gut and laughed me in the face.
- you thought you were safe, didn't you? 
Pushing my head down, keeping it under the surface. 
So, I keep a khamsa around my neck,
and nazars in my ears, because I am not ready.
Not ready to stand there again.
Naked, open, ready to take all that life gives, without any protection.
And no matter if talismans of imaginary armour are just a cheap kind of placebo.
Bohemian, vagabond, maverick.
These are the words I wrap around myself so that I believe them.
So that you believe it, too.

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