2010 10 05
2010 10 04
he world stopped in place when I saw myself over my shoulder and I could have touched that which I saw, but I was backwards and my hand did not go in the correct direction, as if in a mirror, although it seemed I was doing everything right.
That day was a bitch. I stood near the highway and counted the cars racing by, and they kept on coming, like pages in a book which one has not read, and of what use is that to me, when they do not speak. My eyes looked over to the side and I saw a simple flower, and it took me a long time to realize that I am looking at it, and I found myself sitting next to it, and I looked at it for a long time, although the cars kept on speeding past, but I didn’t want to hear them anymore and was not in a hurry to get anywhere.
Does anyone know how to find a word one has lost?
The autumn of that year had not yet arrived, and no one was asking it to come, but there in my heard everything began to churn and change position—autumn became spring, then snow outside the window, and it hurts when you know, that between the both of them you are captured and closed in, and the walls are painted black, and the window
There is no such word in this room.
You can hear whatever you want, but you cannot always listen. It is hard to hear yourself, and if unprepared, it is not something you want or should do. To admit to yourself that you are guilty, that is half the job, but when another who has your appearance says that to you and points with his finger, it is hard then to suffer it, to endure, because after all you yourself have pointed accusingly at yourself, and yes it’s hard, so hard to confess, and you can’t look away, because then it’s even harder, because you are afraid to meet yourself and there are no crossroads nearby…