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.
Lost Generation?
In the twenties, after the Great War, was born the Lost Generation. The idea, not the people made of it. This artistic current had risen from war horrors and feelings there was nothing to expect from the future… For 39,6 million good reasons*.
A few days ago I read a German article: “Wenn die Geduld…
To arms, pupils!
I didn’t protest in 2006 when other pupils were on barricades against some specific rules for our first jobs. I wasn’t against the contestation. I didn’t understand their demands. I was not into politics. Mostly because I was raised in a privileged family, at least back then, and it didn’t occur to me I couldn’t…
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