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I´ve had this peculiar feeling like in that morning, when it was all dark, so clouded, so bleumarin, before an intense raining, behind me, above the city. I was down on the beach and I do not know how the sea was so blue green, only where the sun was breaking through the water, in front of me. The waves were playing, they were touching and almost catching me. The sun blinding me, its reflection in the water blinding me, I was turning to the other side to find the rainbow. I was surrounded. It was beautiful, but it was more than beautiful. And I was talking with the sea, the same sea I was talking to in all those other places. I was telling her what she already knew, out loud, calling her, with all my breathe. So happy, so sad, so sensual. Overwhelmed.
L.
Sometimes I come back here to post something I wish I could remember. I am enthusiast when I start writing. Or there is something that makes me want to write.
When I come back here to post something, I sometimes read the previous post. I read it and I don’t like it. I feel the need to hide it from myself. What I wanted to say is not there. What I wanted to keep is not there.
I would probably write an undetermined number of posts about the same things, in time.
Yes, writing can be violenting. What is kept here is not necessarily the most important, but it could be as well.
What it is not said, what cannot be said, lays in silence. Those said seem forced. Like it is said to be secured and forgotten, indeed. A fictionalizing pile of recordings.
