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.
Secluded
I can’t stand it anymore To live in between those walls Where you don’t laugh To live through those habits In which you don’t live
I can’t stand it anymore Those missed encounters Those missing encounters Those days and hours Painful reminder Of our absence
Frühjahrsmüdigkeit
Spring is blooming and I can only realise I am among those who walk their autumn during spring times. I always thought it was reversed, I surely walk my spring during fall times. I never really thought about it the other way around…. But it does make sense: one can’t go without the other. How…
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Fleeting Wor(l)ds 