quarta-feira, 29 de maio de 2013
Transpires in my beard white wires of an age that still have no marks of the experiences I had, but did not reveal that I have yet; Shines in my eyes a sadness I can not live, but share and describe in my writing and poetry;
Transpires in a poetry that my words do not dominate, but that is present in everything I write and feel; Believe yes I write my stories! Are mine! They come in a gray area where sounds and images represented by translucent colors dancing in my mind, where the thin fragile lines of reality and dreams, are mixed with the madness of living;
Transpires weakness in my body weak, punish the years the mortality of my days, the finitude of my life, our lives, that a flash of years elapsed, or paths chosen or not, can simply end;
Transpires? No! Just seems, because as every artist discovers, discovered the fountain of eternal life, not eternal youth. Passionate yes, crazy perhaps, but I can say that if there is a formula for immortality, say with certainty is the gift of writing.