Life, this strange and indecipherable place where we stayed.
Getting mail from a friend who tells me where he had gone to live with your partner. Shortly after I talk with someone who gives me the news of his separation. But all good: we’ve reinvented me explained. A very nice woman, who does not know in person, write me where I am wondering that if I’m missing. Then I realize that I have no idea where she is or what his face or his voice.
I just started a book by Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the shore “) with the assurance that someone else has just finished his today in a remote corner of the planet. While watching the fire in my fireplace, a complete stranger (to which we must talk a) feeding a bonfire at the foot of the mountains. Death is the prologue to a life that awakens a new light with frightened eyes. A house of cards collapsing talks about all the projects with which we are in debt and we must build. The cool caress of the ocean heat explains the arms of a mother.
We are because we are not seeking any more what we are. But we differ. Forget to begin digesting new memories. We’re not really intended to disappear. Neither the descent into hell. Probably there is no Paradise. Elapsed. We can appreciate the joy, because the texture of the disaster. Learning to laugh, mourn.
We hate because we love. We are short poems. The next page of the book. The letter. Ink. The first gesture of the author. This unusual paradox, but intense shooting-is an invitation to adventure. We have been given a passport to cross the border of the mirror.
