Writing is in an inner and frozen travel. Travel is a moving and endless writing. Both intertwine, inseparable and indefinable, in my personal story. They are multifaceted. They are multilingual. They create here a journey.
Writing is a festival. Travel is an art. Both, invisible and indivisible, fuels my soul and heart. They are private. They are secret. They grow fredoom in my life.
I will try then to break their incomplete, partial and arbitrary definitions. Writing and travel are all this for me. And more unspoken words.
Truly, here and now, I don’t want to give them limits through my own dictonary’s definition, even invented and sensitive. Truly, here and now, I want those two inspirations to argue out of my mind, even if they do through my own sensations, in order to travel us somehere in between imagination and our worlds. Truly, here and now, I want those two aspirations to coexist, independent and free, in this virtual space I set for them according to a new paradigm.
Fleeting Wor(l)ds meant to be explored in and out.
Fleeting Wor(l)ds meaning to be writing on a side road sign or a globe dot.
Fleeting Wor(l)ds meant to be thrilled by a word, a picture, a feeling, an instant, a quest or a landscape.
The quiet rush
March carries a different kind of movement. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just the quiet sense that something inside you is ready to move. Yet. You stay still. It is not an explosion. It is not even a flood.
Supermarket car park
Today, I “had to” write.
I was tempted to keep going on my enamoured and broken heart. But I was uninspired and on the edge of getting bored.
Then, for lack of love, I tried to write the war. To change it into poetry to share my helplessness. But my words lacked power and were…
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Fleeting Wor(l)ds 