And I'm now sitting, beside a dusty porthole, just in front of my image reflected in a one meter-mirror. The whole landscape of me is there. One meter is enough, if I'm satisfied of myself. And I am. But my hands on the keyboard of my computer, my mobile phone, my mouse, the handkerchieves I'm going to use, the table affording me a safe ledge to these objects; my real teenager's hair, now soiled because of warm wet air, collapsed with the other ripe hair, the one of my torso. The little muscles are also remembering me the time they were upper, when I was concentrating on them – my image was the image of them straight to the happiness they were there. The beard, always through an albino and Socrates, is now on my cheekbones, able to go close, one day, to my eyes, and finally cover them.
My soul is also there, between the meanders of all this uselessness. Glad it's still there, braver than me to move through the stuff. As long as it stays, it can also take the good part of everything, and I'll try to not resist her
When my image will send me a poor sensation of me, I rise on the chair, farther than now, and, trying to bring in my image in this smaller size, I'll get naked, feeling the empty fullness of my undressed body, where there are no signs of war, where the experiences I had never leaved their trail, and the alibis of my writing will die out.
My soul is also there, between the meanders of all this uselessness. Glad it's still there, braver than me to move through the stuff. As long as it stays, it can also take the good part of everything, and I'll try to not resist her
When my image will send me a poor sensation of me, I rise on the chair, farther than now, and, trying to bring in my image in this smaller size, I'll get naked, feeling the empty fullness of my undressed body, where there are no signs of war, where the experiences I had never leaved their trail, and the alibis of my writing will die out.
No comments:
Post a Comment