Long words, short glances
- presentiment.
Piercing warmth,
A smile starting on the inside.

New ground, untrodden grass
drops of dew still lingering.
Perhaps I don't have to write this story.
Maybe just live it?

Why I call my books my friends.

An obsessive quest.

Years ago I discovered Milan Kundera's masterpiece 'The unbearable lightness of being'.
I read it over and over, highlighted expressions, learnt passages. Questioned my worldview.

Kundera writes:
'Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor may give birth to love.'
Since then I have been obsessed with metaphors, aphorisms, similes.
Perhaps I secretly hope the right one will give birth to the love I am missing.

Poetry is eroticized language, said Octavio Paz. Maybe Metaphor is language dramatized.
Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last, the sky is a different color.

on the outside, looking in.

It is easy to play the role of ourselves,
only the heart protests,
At first.

We forget,
forget what we wanted, who we used to be
and why we came.
Life catches up and dreams become a little blurry.

I thrive on the fuzziness of those dreams, almost forgotten.
A shock jolts me back to where I began
Where I still live, even when I am elsewhere.

Someday I will be there with me.
At the same time.

the domino effect

It was a small shift,
imperceivable to anyone but me.
Nevertheless decisive, final.

I am a book that you could not take the time to read,
a language you never spoke and won't learn.
I explain myself over and over, but my essence remains undiscovered.
Unread, my cover neatly closed.

It does not matter. Why would it?
you were here but I am the one to remember for everyone.
I'd remind you, but I'm out of breath, out of words.

when one tile falls it takes with it all the rest.

Deconstruction of sovereignty (No man is an island)

It is a strange world,
where all we think of ourselves is based on others' opinion
and everything we feel about others is a reflection of ourselves.

I don't want to acknowledge it,
but independence exists only in contrast to the non-existence of external influences.
Never as a conscious choice.
Is "independently happy" a euphemism for a passive-aggressive weapon of discourse?

And as long as my independence equals the absence of you,
does that not make me dependent on you?
Can a woman ever be an island, entire of itself?

And why is it so important to try?

/How many fantasies in an infinitesimal space?/

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