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Disonantia

contemplate from meditation, the disharmony of my travel day and night prevail. So is the silence as I walk through those blocks and the directions are different from each other, in distance, space dismayed me, are the places where ever I leave those letters, sounded like an echo of footsteps become shadows. There is no reality more clear to my senses that this adverse course, this move out of consciousness to be a whole. My other eye, reflected back to me the water I let the rain that falls just today, find harmony, cool light that blinds me and caresses. These, behind or in a box that changed every moment, letters left on my talk about the fall of words, making oceans in your silence. We reflect, soaked from the deep desire to breathe is not enough. Choking contains the dream which seek to awaken your hands are released on a daily burden of office or refer voices. I see myself just today, timelessly, two years ago, on this principle. Kiss your certainty is wound. I would like ... but the colors are extending this target. Could and yet the mystery is that tone and the words just come in the reluctance to create a philosophy unlikely. Conflicting, there or here, at all sites, being in this, or spiritual bodies dismay. Cease to be, the world becomes tangible and fall into it, with the strength of a premature death, a dream that must not be missed most in the strokes of a painting without color.

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prevalence

There are times when I wonder about the meaning hidden in the act of writing. If writing is more than the action that reveals and opens up new questions as a discipline capable of measuring the intensity of an emotion, even sadness, to turn it into a real fictional space. Discipline that gives meaning to the uncertainty of living and not knowing, to the illogic of present and not differentiate between a state in which everything endures and prevails. Sometimes, as now, is this distraction melody, where this is extended to embrace the memory of what has not been. Because they are images that are kept outside the boundaries of consciousness, there, where only the new way of interpreting the stimuli and to define reactions influences. Write. Firework light illuminating your face, in the midst of an impenetrable darkness. Worlds of shadow. Universe of chairs where you can see only shapes. Tables around us, with his own life. Doors. Crystals blurred and the possibility of the impossible, achieving, without even understanding the passage of minutes, clinging to the hours I know. Tranquility that covers me, above all the darkness of silence are shadows, the warmth of your face on.