🌲🤎I write to you but in reality I write to myself,
I write to remember and to forget,
to order and to confuse,
I write to repeat and to erase,
I write to find you and to lose you.
I write to you who can't read me,
I write on a silent and warm evening,
a starless evening in which my eyes are unable to see,
yet my hands go,
guided not by what they know but by what they would like.
I write in the absence to imagine a presence,
I write the aftermath of a time that seems very far away,
a time in which it was easy to imagine oneself in any tomorrow,
in which what had now become impossible was taken for granted,
a time in which many words passed through eyes while now,
not even for a moment,
it is possible to speak in silence.
I loved that silence,
it seemed to me that it contained the very essence of me,
it seemed to me more understandable than the words that I now have to entrust to paper,
with the fear of losing them along the way,
in the wind that crosses distances,
infinite distances.
A wind that burns and scatters,
a wind that doesn't caress but slaps.
Precisely because I loved that silence,
I treasured all the pauses,
the delicate interruptions just to tell me superfluous things,
to find out in which position I had slept,
how I had tied up my hair,
to ask myself banalities imbued with love,
what had I eaten,
if I had come home too late,
how much work I still had to do.
I write because writing is essential and sometimes I feel like I don't know how to do anything different.
Just making up fairy tales.
Fairy tales that I need to melt the ice inside me.
I write because words approach and at the same time distance,
I write because I let go, release and enchant,
I write because it is the best way to tell you that I am still here,
tired as few times in my existence, imagining a lighter life,
a world with less problems,
a shorter summer,
something to get rid of this pain in the center of my chest.
I'm here waiting,
still,
for you to really exist...
🤎💖💗💕💓💘💞💝
沒有留言:
張貼留言