Parties
Sometimes ... Sometimes I want to play directly, the words that come to mind, and do not write, I would like people to feel while I think how I think.
only pictures I have in mind, and, paradoxically, do not click. Even photographs of the past, not taken. A
, one that I see often, an applicant is that they are lying somewhere with a book in hand, an open book, open at a point where I should start reading is the point where I stayed, is the my sign, but I have an open book resting on the legs only as an excuse, only for others, just to not have to answer "no" or "I'm thinking" if someone were to pass, notice me, and ask what I'm doing.
Why on the pretext of the book actually rest the body and allowing the head to do what she wants, and if by chance I want to read two lines from surplus to sign on my book.
no other purpose apparent.
And then it happens, these days, many times a day, to surprise me to remember places and moments that are not immediately aware, the first of which is the positive emotion of belonging and serenity, tiring after a few minutes to locate and date .
We were here at this time, we did that, we went for this reason, we said so. And, several times a day, these photographs (ever) taken before me summarize our history and why we are together, sometimes there is also need. Only at night
Abstract stops, suspends crystallizes, drowned, paralyzed.
the night people disappear.
The darkness melts and there are only the shadows and ghosts, and then reviews the facts seem heavier. On the night
certainties crumble. In the morning when the electricity comes back, people seem to regain its true, seem to regain their volume as inflatable dolls filled the air of a compressor, a compressor that damned restores the forms and contents.
The night that once helped me to untangle the skeins kill me now.
E ' made to sleep or watch movies fucked up in the morning and yet I happen to use it only to pass the time, no insomnia, no, it intentionally.
In the nights sometimes even disappears Francesca and take back his person, not an ingredient and component of my thoughts and feelings.
Sometimes I want to play, yeah. That wonderful feeling
alienating, in which two overlapping incredibly mixed emotions: the cancellation of themselves for what most distinguishes us, emptiness, and the testing of that part of himself little known or poorly trained, again becomes element to be exploited to talk of something else or something else and that is apparently just wants to find a carrier. Sometimes
I would really act, and not having to justify saying "I was just me who thinks so." I was right and I already regret it, wrong, try again, too easy to repent, wrong, too easy to retract.
These days I happen not to be even more certain of my mood, which is something much more complicated than having an uncertain mood could be as long ago. It 's a fairly complex node.
reassures me, in short breaks, equal to rediscover myself in long time intervals. Feel like in the company for the sole reason to listen privately to music on headphones. Protected variety from the face of people crossing the steps that I get tired, the famous smile that is usually free I have to donate generously.
It 'Peter Pan is a selective, very smart, my. After all, a Peter Pan in effect, hiding well his presence. and is limited, not to invade the rest of my life, a hypothesis very attractive, even desirable.
Perhaps the desire to play what I think is to remain poised for Peter delegate to the solution of problems, to justify myself if I am not in charge alone.
How are you today, right? Perhaps it is excessive, say more. Were you wrong? I could not tell, really. You do not live well, then? We say that the study of adaptation tricks. And Frank knows? You have to adapt his techniques to me.
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