profaNation

It stings.
It stings or it itches: rarely we can tell the difference.
Such, is the feeling for a time now gone, that we had no chance to live.
That, is the feeling we have when we would have done something, something that we didn't do because we couldn't, but that we wouldn't have done in any case, if we've had the opportunity.

Some thoughts sparkle, others just reflect. Writing can be visualized as the activity of building a house of mirrors, then looking into the only open window. Trapping light, catching our own ideas.

Understanding yourself is more than a necessity: it is an art, unteachable yet fundamental.
Our recurring themes watch us from the ceiling of blogosphere, like guiding constelations.
They are interlaced videos, partialized and mixed both to be understandable and to find new themes.

The bull and the bear, the long shower and the little farewell: lost rays, dispatched to lo lit up a rock in the sky just to be pinned to a canvass of darkness, forever. Moon is such an overrated term: we like to call it the lone satellite, as if satellites were not alone enough.

Her eyliner is fading: crying, she prepares to shower. Water to clean water, water thicker than blood, blood mixed to itself again and again and again, blood renewed by pain.
It stings; it stings or it itches: once again it's difficult to tell the difference.
The title she had in mind was "Life of Ivanka"; now, searching herself in the mirror, she thinks of "Life of Angela", or "Life of Hilary" or "Life or Elizabeth".

A last lady, creeping from darkness into light: being born from her offsprings by rewinding the big bang. The little bang and the big mermaid. She waves a reddish salmon tail to lure the bull and the bear in the middle of the creek: a sacrifice for the sake of sacrificies. To endure reality, everlasting the experience of life.
A last look to our last necessity giveaway: a last aid kit to mend wounds after a first supper.