He said you should write.
So I sent her, finally here and he said yes.
I think as much, but he thought.
But writing, eh, stop and go sketching frankly, with a brush or trowel, but we ve finally, to caress paper. That it weighs in the bag, it occupies your hands and eyes until the meeting at which coffee will be no need, with that woman who ask you what you read, or that man, precisely, who would have bought the Similarly, there are 8 days, but that has not really hooked, as if we spent our time hanging on the pages, harpooned by the stories of others.
Sewn, all the time, the white thread of destiny invented songs lying around and you cut into. (This is very important nicks. It allows you to see the inside, the outside so when we are inside. Of course, at the time of the incision, there is this surprise, the pain sometimes this time of withdrawal. It's fast, a notch, because that is exactly the opposite of wear.
It splits the casing and they cry a little, it's typing.)
He said you should write and of course, I'm driven with a pirouette. Is what I could tell myself that I had spent my Saturday between a library and a sports shop and there was no two places are more conducive to understanding how it was impossible to write.
one hand, there were these cells and batteries, tireless, crammed in precarious towers, all these people who wrote like the old Jew who ran in the ghetto of Lodz, crying " I have the answer! I have the answer! that the question? "
And then the other, there were all these people who had time to deal with their bodies and it was nice to be there, look out, because the store does gives more plastic bags, then have their hands full. And you can invent their lives, as invited at another, at supermarket checkouts, watching what they bought. Even if Nothing is really appetizing, gluttony, it's not yogurt with blueberries, that's life there is around. Like this girl, pretty and pale, February 14, which had deposited on a carpet roll of wrapping paper and a pot of wax. It's all very cringe at the stories of Saint Valentine, it was these two little items on the gray of the treadmill and in the hands of the tired cashier.
This sports shop was the same. there was this elderly couple who went out with two small folding metal, and then this mother with a dance attire for this little girl she jeered without tenderness, of those mothers who want to do everything well for kids at heart She does not even know if they support them, those who go skiing and have forgotten the lipstick, the one who comes in to fill his afternoon and contemplate length sea kayaks out orange and blue paper.
And then this tiny child who calls the voice and gesture his first sunglasses she can put herself, who goes up your nose, walking again with five degrees of heel with each step, with the label stroked her cheek in his jacket that always seems to have it fly away with it.
I did not dare tell him the friend that I did not create heroic and adventurous life, that maybe, finally, I had loved it, the torrents of words and events that leave you breathless until the middle of the night, these lives Overseas real still so ardently, so fully drawn you always carry a little further. But that, to invent, that I walk away from these mundane lives, that is as valuable mine in their vagueness salutary in their trash alluvial these lives to live.
He told me that I should write and I know I could never root out the name of what, more than any other, a life outside the tiny world of rumor.
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