Friday, January 14, 2011

How Many Calories In A Salad From School

The blanket

It's your voice I hear, your beautiful voice just a little 'nose. He invites me from afar and I can not tell whether that is spatial or temporal distance, if you call me from the Andaman Islands or a lost summer day a few years ago, if you're waiting for me or whether I expect el ' opportunity is now lost. Odysseus are now and your voice is a melodious siren: I tied to the mast, my fellow hard working at the oars, at the helm, the ropes, with the wax in the ears paid for that you can not hear, not to go crazy 's instead love like I do. And you call and call and songs and calls me and whispers my name ...

I wake up. I understand that these dreams are a kind of security blanket for my timid insecurity. A blanket too short, however, that warms me up only slightly, which leaves me helpless in the open looks. Could have been worse, I could be Charlie Brown ... It is four o'clock, the dawn is still far away. A faint glow in the dark shadows and reflections to draw the moon likes to play with the mirror, the mirror blank of love that once welcomed the voluptuous cascades of your hair, our faces close, the kisses, the sparks of passion. Now I just have these recurring dreams, I have only your memory: the other day it was suddenly presented by the parties of Vitruvius Way. Turn your back the white marbles of the Central Station, the red curtains Hotel Gallia: you were beautiful and elegant, dressed like that day we left for Venice in pursuit of the Mannerist painters in the museums of Venice. The sky was of molten lead, which is identical. But I had to work, my black shoulder bag was pounding on the hip, I remembered that I had to urgently go to the office, practices and acts that were waiting for me on the desk. I also directed a gesture of greeting, fleeting, a little embarrassed '. But your memory stayed with me all morning, I was escorted on the documents, distracted me, I did make mistakes.

So you are no longer remember. The dream is in fact nothing more an elaboration of memories and desires. You are like the flowers that are preserved in boxes and then dry slowly leaving a fine chalk dust. The velvet petals of paper and then becomes ash. I do not have scales that you, as you were that reconstruct fragments. But love does not live in arid and barren land, wants a good ground for its flowers can blossom and flourish. Perhaps it is the seed, it is certainly not seccume. I turn on the side, maybe I can go back to sleep. Maybe I can even dream of and if your lips touched mine, I will settle for the illusion languid.

Image © Schulz / Peanuts

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