(no subject)
To write is perhaps infinitely simpler and more genuine than to say what it was written. For me, however, it is never easy. The language of gestures is more skin tangent, more innate in me. What could be more difficult than being simple? I always look for the answers in the brightness that often invades your eyes, in your spontaneous and absolute smile. If not I could stumble, in the gusts of needles that you use to perforate the densest armor, in your sarcastic way of punching fear attacking who disturbs you and hiding it of yourself, in the silly thoughts that you let free, in that expression sharing directness and raw honesty, sometimes vile. What questions assault your soul? Certainly those very close to mine even if different. What is a man more than any other? Apart from the instrumentalism of its genitals what is it that differentiates a man from another one? I would say passion, goals, his heart, his mind. There must be a vibration associated with each man. An intangible thing, an essence, what one feels in its presence or sometimes from great distances. Something that one feels intensely. What kind of man am I to you? This question frightens me. This difficulty to transpose the barrier of what it is felt to the formularization of what is necessary to be loved. Will you be capable of reading my eyes, my gestures, to read everything that words do not say? Am I simply utopian, a dreamer? Should I feel guilty for wanting to love until death, to burn of passion, to be stubborn for the lines of your body, or for the devastating way you smile? I would desire, my love, to be that permanent surprise, the essence that completed you, that made you thirsty and not this imperfect being, this fog species, that at times is desirable and during other verges boredom. I would desire, my love, to know how to write with words that were not only ideas or concepts but signals of love without formula, of an interminable accord with what you desire, not of an egoistic love, an incessant will of wanting a life together, of this fondness for another future, this genetic act of not being able to exist without loving you.