*chapter One, where I run away from home

12219403_1646153878988277_8868682009092114688_n(Nice, 2015)

My grandma used to say it’s forbidden to sew on a Sunday. She didn’t know exactly what would happen if, but she always reminded me of her nightmare

my eyes and mouth were stitched, there was an old lady with a giant needle and red thread sewing my mouth and eyes she was 100 years old 

so I don’t sew on Sundays, just in case the old lady would visit my dreams.

The loose ends

once upon a time in an air plane I read this picture in a book:
strings of yarn
a few hundred strings stretching across the water
passengers leaving for the inside world
they held balls of yarn

the others on the pier held the loose ends, a few hundred strings
every ten seconds slowly flying
as I was shouting farewells waiving furiously

the balls of yarn began to spin – I began to spin
my fingers were part of her dreams now
my footsteps were part of his imaginary home now
my hair and eyes were part of their hopes
now

I was gone.

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#love series (1)

That’s the problem, see, whenever I try to write something about it, my mind suddenly empties. Flashbacks of words and dashes and points – a certain rhythm inside me but still like a rock on the outside. Is language a problem? Does it stop the going with the flow? or is it too much going with the flow already? so much that it’s all transformed into cosmic energy and it doesn’t belong to me any more. I don’t belong to myself any more.