I am 5 am I think. I woke up from one of the dreams that I do not exist at this time.
not get out of bed seems like a compromise to not feel tired.
I open my eyes on the window, and I'm there ...
They gave me the name of something beautiful ...
I look to change color and clear ... it is born ... and ironically when I was little, I wanted to become a midwife, who knows if the idea came to me, seeing me come after a sleepless night. The midwife Alba.
The nice thing about watching the sunrise is the perception of time passing. Reassures me. It 'an incredible sweetness. E 'right now that I think perhaps this name suits me much.
reassures me, black, blue, lighter blue, violet, indigo, pink and then light. All
the silence she wakes up, and the birds are called one after another, from tree to tree, and the rustling of the plants and the earth ... It 's all slow, but not much.
And then the sound for a moment that breaks everything. Damn
rail.
wound is a wound. I
diverted elsewhere.
I think back to the book yesterday and its cry of anger, think of me and I get this sentence from the lips: I am a patch
spray that creates an invisible protective
on a wound until it has healed
after that .. . is taken away, crumpled and thrown away.
A patch spray made to not be noticed much, not to bother, why do his duty and then discarded.
As another day comes. Dawn does his duty and go ...
Lasting "a little bit." The duration of an injury "a little bit deeper." Change
thought.
Maybe the pickup of garbage collectors aka ecological operators. I feel
load the box and then go away. And I think the patch
spray thrown. And a phrase comes to mind: In
garbage are the most intimate things a person to understand.
not remember if it is a quote from a movie, an episode of x-files or Lieutenant Colombo. But it is true. But now there's the
collection.
If before we throw it all in one place.
A place to gather the scraps of every human family. Eating habits, regular readings, mail rejected, the bad things hidden deep in my bag because it may never be found ...
Now there's recycling.
And each man stands in front of their ghosts. Forced to choose their end. The right one.
And everything is divided, and the sensation of understanding humanity through the things we throw away, no longer exists.
E 'depersonalized.
E 'approved and differentiated. And we are all equal.
I wonder what the box just for a patch spray.
I wonder if I could choose where I want to be thrown.
And among all the bins are colored ... I would be thrown in a dumpster for bulky things. One of those without cover. .. Dawn air and light.
And 'the only bin in which there exists the hope that someone will recover. What then
unfounded and just a hope. But things thrown there, last longer.
And I do not mind having the least hope.
Just for the feeling of "free space" left on the person who throws it away. If only for that feeling, to know even just a moment, I was a space that did not pass unnoticed. I turn
into my bag. In my portfolio I have thrown a burden, that I have recovered. Many many years ago. 10 years.
There is a photograph of a man who looks like a woman.
The photographs are a huge footprint. There
him in there next to my ID.
It 's my space freed, rescued from abandonment. That nobody wanted. Except me.
And then the support on my scars and smile.
I am a bit 'already healed.
And now there is light for today. And I'm glad that in 10 years quell'ingombro I have never weighed.
He is, in my identity card, I offer a bit of mine. Identity that in 10 years, and maybe even before, he never had.
And now I get up in the plastic bag of coffee
The bottom of the coffee plants.
Good morning to all patches spray.
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