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night

Thus it was that night, I lightly touched the tips of his fingers, as if they were feathers, wings close to me.

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I'm not the perfect person that I believed to be.
I noticed after a long talk with myself, after coming to terms with my body that does not work as before.
After a long inner journey, I thought that my soul had found a place where to stop, and instead has taken to walking certain routes not only never end, but perhaps after years of straight road, when now believe that the path does not change Moreover, a curve here, a climb, a descent, a tree in the middle of the road.
I wanted to find an inner perfection or at least go close, make that my soul was not troubled by transmitting the calm but I've always aspired to be transmitted.
But no, here we are again to come to terms with something he does not know how to give a name, you feel as if the light you want to explode inside out, break away from your body and find darkness to light.
not understand the origin of certain feelings is disorienting and devastating, it makes you feel tired, even just to walk, the only thing you want to do is curl up in a safe place waiting for the storm is over, sit in silence and give courage to their thoughts and flowing, as if they were waiting on a river that leads them to the mouth, until they merge with the sea.
I would be perfect.
-
a perfect person - a friend
perfect - a perfect girlfriend

give to others what they ask me, what you expect, what they believe to be due, listen to what they are saying.
And sometimes I can not do, I try and it hurts. After I
so bad.
evil within.
hands as if stretching to drag me into their dark.

But I do not feel like talking, I do not know how to explain, I'm jealous of my emotions, what I feel, of what I feel and I am convinced that others would not know even how to take things I say, maybe they would know only judge, or shoot the usual four sentences for discounted.

But I would like to find a corner only for me, let me rincocigliarmi with myself and continue to flow.

I only have "the patience of the waves come and go" ...

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Hatch.

There is the fact that sometimes I wonder who let me do.
Once upon a time, writing had shades of un'irredentismo against the malaise and a ransom for myself-was valid at the same time save. He was venting and he was giving me a chance. Not that I ever followed an estimate of me, mind you, but at least I thought that there was something holding me back a little above zero. It allowed me, at the end of the day, having put aside the dark thoughts. So it was up to some time ago. Then came OT.
And all this has been added to the oceans of passion and torture, digging deeper than he did, especially at the end-and disbelief could love so much absolute something that came from me. Find all the gradations of good and evil, and really hear.
It hurt, but the evil that is positive in the end, in a sense.
The following is not so. The following is frustration.
OA, is frustration. It is not just the fact that the characters are in critical situations, not even the fact that they suffer, and I with them. It 'more subtle, more connected to my * ability * to write. Were only them, to hurt. But it is also my inadequacy. OT
What makes a novel, is her turn around a nucleus. With its compact design, with its sides that open and close, but are oriented toward a center, and from a series of experiences that appear similar in size, but vary within, deep inside. OT has a novel structural economy. And this made it easier to write. It was not possible to get lost-not really.
The figure is the dispersion instead of OA. The characters are no longer in the same city, but in most parts of the world [Paris-Boston, and at Los Angeles, and will appear Lyon and I think other]. Gone are the years-not so much as to change entirely, but enough to make them grow, change or otherwise, in some way. Things have happened. And the point is this.
There are boxes which are and should remain stable, a background of the characters, their lines, their early history that OT has made immutable-and yet, within a scattered pattern. It is based on a spider web, OA, or frayed a web of relationships still steady, from one end of the ocean, the city, the house. Of life, because trequasiquattro years the life you can change.
do not think I could be. Right, I'm missing something.
It absorbs me so much, and I really want to write it, I have to put aside all the other stories I have in mind, as PM, that I can not wait to get started. But I can not travel two roads at once like that-and also have a real life, in the meantime.
With all the neuroses and the commitments it entails.

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not perfect self-repression

I am deeply convinced that if people fully express their impulses, we would live in a world more peaceful and less frustrating.
self-repression, a practice that many people are devout.
observe people as they move, how they talk, how they react and see in them only a great frustration mixed with anger bad, and this is also projected on their bodies, often awkward and unattractive.
People are locked in tight cages mentally.
I hear many different speeches, especially on sexuality. Everything that is the ratio that mimics the play is considered a perversion. Living in a natural way with his own body is considered to be "very decent people" and to suppress and the way to be considered "normal", after rotten below and then go look in the ways most extreme emotions ....
And if you scratch beneath the surface are the manager in charge of a staff that you submit and sodomized by the mistress of the moment. Or the housewife who goes to a paid escort.
And yet her husband "faithfully" in appearance and good with children who takes venereal disease from Nigeria on the road, stay if you feel attracted to someone to be afraid of the so-called "seduced and abandoned."
is still being held in their relations with their partners, because "who knows what might be thought, then after discovering that he was worse with another.
And then anger explodes, they take it to the world, angry with everything and everyone, a subtle anger that you can breathe like suffocating dust. Why
hold the tension turns into a black veil and negative.

And all in the name of what? Of something dictated by a religion, and laws that the invisible man has self-imposed.

Living oneself is the most natural thing on earth, to live what your body wants is the way to come to terms with themselves and with a good 30% road to inner peace.
But the harsh reality is that it is far from a concept model of society in which we live.

And then sex is commodified, sold, seen as something dirty and hidden.
And most people live in search of these things, cosidessi "pigs" exist because society has made that existed. Those ugly people look at you in the body that looks like a starving man a loaf of bread ...

And at the end of all, if you dare to make such a speech is given to you just a label that usually begins with P.

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Elena.

I miss.
I want to see.
I want to sit next to her and lean on his shoulder, I want you to be my support.
I prepare breakfast and coffee, I want you to make me bread.
I want to go and get her to come and take me. Grocery shopping with her. Wander aimlessly. Talk to her
our stories and shake our hands because we're geniuses. Her the scratch card as if it were a wolf. Genoa
I want is his and that is my Oristano. Sing with her at the bottom of the last bus.
Crying like a desperate on her bed with her cat that rises on the legs.
I want you to smile more, and has more reasons to do so.
protect, and teach those who are left behind that is lost more than they will ever understand.
I want to write. Because she pulsates in every word, and I sometimes leaves an impression for days. Months.
I want to be able to see more often. They can hold your hand. Listen.
I want you to hold my, hand.
I hate all this water in our midst.
And all that stands, even when the sea through it.
I miss so much.
I can not do anything. And
'my sister. It 's the sister who did not give me the blood, but all the rest.
And I can not tell you how much you love her.