weaving this cloth, that is my life, during the day, then undo it in the dark of night, not waiting for Odysseus I never knew, except in my dreams.
I am pleased and then I despise myself, I eat and then vomit, I want attention and when I will reject the offer. In any case it's always me I think. And I feel guilty about it; it's as if I did not feel worthy of my own attention.
not think I can still aim to inner peace, I have only two options: wallow in my pain and drown in, or exploit it. The best works of art are such thanks to the suffering endured by the artist.
Tears are a good fertilizer for the plants most sublime, the rarest, most mysterious.
But there are times when I would put myself in a corner, curl up and become smaller and smaller ... until it disappears completely. Without a trace.
I feel that the contrast is not inconsistent.
A phrase echoes and echoes in my mind : nothing is what it seems .
I'd be curious to see what's left of me after all this, I suppose: the wires that no one will ever know a time were a canvas.
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