sometimes, when I dig into my things...
I find lost papers, lost words.
sentences written on a dirty napkin
texts on those bases made of cardboard that we use to put the drinks
drafts of thoughts on the back of a check of a restaurant.
most of them are mine...I wrote, I lived.
but there are some from others as well :
papers of stories I didn´t write... papers of moments I also felt.
...
I wish I could collect everything
each word, each sentence, each text...
and put them in a single book
give them a chronology
a link
a context...
a (maybe logic) sense.
and illustrate them with some colors
(besides the white and blue)
and some songs as well.
songs about conversations
people
moods
and instants alone.
songs then followed by pictures
of myself
of others
and landscapes
landscapes with lights and cities
and moons in front of my window while I fall asleep.
landscapes of laughing faces and beaches close by.
and rainy days hiding the sun
landscapes of angry attitudes I shouldn’t have shown.
of peaceful moments I will never forget.
landscapes of problems that took too long
and guitar sounds that should last forever.
...
in the end I think I would get an unclear story of my life
a huge book with a tick and old front page followed by hundreds of yellowish pages
pages made of lakes and waves
of breezes and storms
of flowers and forests
dances around camp fires
and the sand in my shoes.
And finally I would read it, maybe backwards
or maybe randomly, opening the book in whatever page
to then imagine a non predictable future.
a future of feelings that I could then write on a napkin
or on those card board bases to put the drinks
or even on a check of a restaurant...
to then find it later
lost
among my things.
mirah - don't die in me
