and leaves in her hair in the wind and finding connexions between the books she has been falling in love with, and without a pen, tenderly marking the pages with ash. her books will smell of cloves now, too. as if the words have life only in those pages. as if.
'You write, I suppose.'
'No,' Oliviera said. 'What could I write about, in order to do that you have to have some certainty that you've lived.'
'Existence precedes essence,' Morelli said with a smile.
'If you want to put it that way.'
the world cleaves about into ten thousand translucent planes. truth and untruth. hunger and fullness. writing and blankness. fiction and non. stories we write to entertain and stories we write to believe in.
i don't trust myself anymore. i am all of a fiction. i don't know where my planes intersect. the elusivity of my truths is just as damning as my desperate need to define them.
i don't trust myself anymore. i am all of a fiction. i don't know where my planes intersect. the elusivity of my truths is just as damning as my desperate need to define them.
4 comments:
chere anise, my breath is hitching. it is.
I can never think of the right thing to say when I comment to you. Nothing seems right, nothing could ever match up to your beautiful writing.
But so you know, I'm here, I'm reading, I love your posts. xo.
o(^-^)o
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to write you must have lived but living with uncertainty i think makes for better writing xo
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