Miscellany

Strange things are happening. Suddenly I started to find scribbled letters on all around, or little yellow papers with little blue flowers make me remind something that never happened. From some melodies come scenes that can happen someday, but for the time being they are held into a bird, into a box, into a stone in the bottom of the sea, like that children’s story that I read many times. Sometimes the sound of drops falling down become a loud noise and I’m afraid of the connections between my nervous cells. Every slip can be fatal, and I look like walking barefoot over stones covered with green and humid moss. I’ve already wished to wash my brain with chlorine, but I think it won’t work. And sometimes I have to censure myself because I want to be the director, scripwriter and actress of my own college play. But I’m very stubborn. And as I censure myself, I get weaker. Maybe I like feeling weak. Maybe it’s good. And in certain moments, for some minutes, I’m not here, but very far. I feel like travelling to an inexistent present, that I dare to wish as a future present. Or a present future. It even can be a future inside a present. And when I wake up, I realize that I have more sets of scribbled letters than I did before. And together with the little papers come rolls of films, and drawings printed in photographic paper. I’m holding on to everything. But even if I did not want to hold on to, the indications would still be here. The doddles and the little birds drawn on the walls say everything. They are hummingbirds, and they know the truth and they know that I also know that, but I won’t confess not at all, then they fly, pretty, showing off their soft bright. But I’m save because, in spite of Christmas coming soon, I just have drawn scribbled letters and little birds. Inside myself, not over my skin. And as I am not a Christmas decoration, at least these things won’t become Christmas light and denounce myself. No, not yet. For the time being, I’m safe.