Lavínia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 77
I walk in three directions, with the wind, in four norths on different plains. I climb the surface, I descend to the ravine. The humidity and dry air, biting cold and sweat. The smell of dead skin, the absence of odor. I make a complete turn, in an arc, along the divine sky to the vastness of the earth. Wings come out of my feet. From my mouth I spit chains. I walk, I spit, I walk, I spit. I run, I scream. I stop, I whisper. I have desires, I have the need for rest, the absence of desires.
I counted, I opened a sea of symbols giving rise to lakes and small islands of expressions. What passes through the mind is destroyed repeatedly by us, until it forms and is spit out of the mouth. Summary of facts. Truth is conclusion.
I don't know how to express myself anymore, my words are increasingly dry, more on the straight line, fixed. I'm living the routine, work, rest. Repeat. I don't know how to express or say what I have, or don't have, or what I want. I'm not happy. I want a lot of things, I want a person I no longer have, but I don't want them. I don't know what I can do. Maybe this is the most stable moment of my life, and is that it? Is that what I can have? Is that it? Is that it? Is that it? Is that it?
If the most I can get is stability, running on a line without identity, thought or with agony without poetic content. I get sad if there is something sad. I laugh if there is something to laugh at. If that is the most I can do, I can only really die. That's what I can do. It's the natural conclusion, I'll get sick and run.
I can't even lie anymore. My body is a patchwork of burns, scratches and cuts. I can't get close to anyone anymore, hide. I can't change my face anymore, it's just a face, it's not an expression, it's not essence, it's a face. It's flesh, it's cartilage. Living isn't good enough
I counted, I opened a sea of symbols giving rise to lakes and small islands of expressions. What passes through the mind is destroyed repeatedly by us, until it forms and is spit out of the mouth. Summary of facts. Truth is conclusion.
I don't know how to express myself anymore, my words are increasingly dry, more on the straight line, fixed. I'm living the routine, work, rest. Repeat. I don't know how to express or say what I have, or don't have, or what I want. I'm not happy. I want a lot of things, I want a person I no longer have, but I don't want them. I don't know what I can do. Maybe this is the most stable moment of my life, and is that it? Is that what I can have? Is that it? Is that it? Is that it? Is that it?
If the most I can get is stability, running on a line without identity, thought or with agony without poetic content. I get sad if there is something sad. I laugh if there is something to laugh at. If that is the most I can do, I can only really die. That's what I can do. It's the natural conclusion, I'll get sick and run.
I can't even lie anymore. My body is a patchwork of burns, scratches and cuts. I can't get close to anyone anymore, hide. I can't change my face anymore, it's just a face, it's not an expression, it's not essence, it's a face. It's flesh, it's cartilage. Living isn't good enough
