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.
Going a song in my heart
Those words sound like an epitaph of my own grief.
For my first Berlineer journey, I was drained. I wasn’t exploring the world, I was retiring from mine. I was escaping endless chats, constant waits, unconscious pressures. I was coping with ideas, concepts, dreams I never had, the green city was my shelter.
Get off to a good start
This time, every clock is on time, every route is on road, I even have my printed and stamped ticket.
I didn’t miss my bus, even though it almost did miss me. At least for a stretch. Back to school’s fault. But, fortunately, my lucky star protected me and the autobahn ran in front of…
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Fleeting Wor(l)ds 