THEN11t0331

(if by any chance you missed the beginning of the greatest event of 2011, you can start reading it here, where the first lerrnstory starts)

you know, my dear, you can experience living in various ways. your problem is only this one, which is the same as mine. you only live one life at a time.
the moon, clear, invaded the room.
now that the moon reflects your face, i remember a special day. live images and memories, just like you.
in the distance, i notice the ship that seems stopped on the horizon and it’s not the one of my dreams, that one you dreamed with me during the dream we dreamed together.
i watch the ship without seeing it, just notice it now because i remember you as i write, our lives were not little boats that sail to drift, you would see then if i were here, standing, looking at the horizon made of nothing, in it inventing a sailboat filling the landscape, and planning this way, i remember the horizons move slowly, so the boat i put on my most present horizon does not move, there it stays as if the wind stopped not to spoil the metric of this poetry done in prose, whether made in words flung to the wind, that one stopped to let me throw them, in this case so that the horizon does not flee, as if static drops so i can see it and thus think of you.
you say - pretty words that do not convince me - i know. and so i say them, to convince me that you hear them.
i know you don’t hear anything, maybe because i don’t speak, i simply write.
think with me: forget everything you've read so far, what now you read, but also what you read yesterday and the day before, forget everything you've learned until now; just what i say is true, fix yourself on this moment: look at the sun - i know now it rains - but look at the sun: you see the sun behind the clouds, well behind all this gray and you no longer know if it really were there or if it was you who created him?
how? i created the gray?
who was it, if were not you?
maybe have been you.
me? how could i have created the gray? look at me: do you see gray in my eyes? come with me. you'll see what i do.
look at my pictures, for the walls, see well the layers i've covered and recovered, what do they say to you?
they tell me you are better than me.
or they tell you i think i am better than you. i am egocentric and conceited.
or conceited and egocentric.
you're not going far with this exchange of words nobody wants to understand. the books have been books, now are movie and tv arguments: you read books like if you were in an armchair movie eating popcorn.
this book is not a book: it’s a popcornbook.
i am tired of writing these little nothings.
man: popcornwriter of the popcornbook: do you write of what?
i write of the tidbits that make me tired and those that fascinate me. of which that are autobiographical and which are not, but not being, were in my dreams or in my nightmares.
then, it is always autobiographical?
perhaps, if the day is done of 24 hours, being you on, off, zen above or below the stratosphere, into your 24 hours you can do more than to live. maybe i write in my rem phase, or not, perhaps is a word that facilitates communication.
yesterday, you were talking to a friend of mine.
i have? and how do you know?
she told me about you.
yes?
she told me you passed by her three times until being able to say hello.
it's true. the first and the second, she was on the cellphone.
i call her lou.
do you remember lou the first time you bumped with me and you lifted up your eyes like who asks what is she doing here at this hour?
also i asked you the same with the eyes, but you haven’t answered the same way i didn't answer to you, but we both communicated.
do you remember the second time, when you opened your mouth in a yawn? still on the mobile phone, you haven’t laughed or looked, you were just indifferent as if i haven’t been near?
and we were not going to cross near anymore. but arriving to my room, i still lacked one thing and turned down. and you were still there. we were both there, and we walked away or we stayed.
which one looked first? who is the first to smile and to look ahead?
which one of us thinks harder: this moment is mine and unique.
after all, who tells me if i am a writer or a letters keyboard player?
only i can claim it, to write is not to publish. to write is, rather than the act of writing, the repeated will to do so repeatedly. write for to write, as doing by doing, as to read by reading, and that is what you are doing right now.
write by writing, by instinct, as a keyboard player who wanders, and casts his lot with the enough rules to make sense, maybe not for those who read, but for who wanders, who joins the letters as the thought sloshes ashore and thus the contents are spread and arise the in/conscious.

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