with the smile of surprise, the happiness of fear that lives in the end of my pen, and the pain of sadness in the bosom of my paper, with all this, i write, or you may say, i'm being torn, i turn into curtains in beds of departure. i leave you all castels of companionship and all longing paths.
my friend, why do you exists in an event that's already gone and lleft with all it's colors, an event whose moments are dead and whose ideas are broken and it's all melting away. why do i put you in events that composes my past and that formed the sequence of my senstive life and carried me on boats of silver.
i'm leaving very far away with all my papers in which i learned how to pronounce letters, in which i learned how to love. i'm leaving, lest losing myself.. just to stay the old original copy of myself, which nobody has ever seen and i keep it before it melts in basins of ending.
my friend, my silver boat carried me to some events with very rare views and i'm the only one capable of reforming them into a readable language, but i can never shape them in a movie of blood, life, existence and moaning, i can never reprogram and throw them in all faces that declare lies and deceit... and throw them in beds and on pavements of laws and sails. i can't throw them inside every author and poet, and all the slaves of pens and movies. and burst them in all saloons and dining rooms... and in excellent and debauchee feast dinners on the honor of all shameless people. can't throw them in all steel safes full of gold, money and stones that are noble, precious and low.
my friend, i'm leaving 'cause i wanna gather my whole life on a wing of a brid and from the highest point in the sky, i can see the bug world while keeping my eyes closed so that i can keep in memories what i used to love, and not to see what i don't like, and i had enough of whom i really loved.
i want, while having my eyes closed, to get entirly in to the small focus of my happiness so that the rest of my life stays bitter, i wanna discover that the focus of my pleasure is me as a whole. just as i am inspite of the existence of a lot of victims in a sinner and beaten world, a world in which all smiles are not fake, and words are just not hollow compositions belonging to the lanuage and even touches, whispers and situations are all real emptiness and hollow.
my friend i'm leaving while my word's are stumbling in the steps of my last letters on the border of your existence. just to exempt myself from being on the margin of thoughts and pens, and not to be relasped by pain and raise my hand good-bye and farewell through the tremble of regret, cause i don't wanna be in life, just a letter or a number!
11-23-92 copyright deborah richards
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Reviewed by Paul Shakespeare
9/20/2007
Beautiful and Very Profound Write!---causing a deep introspection of oneself...
I've missed you terrible,Dahling! <smile> Your writings grips and "stirrrs" me to no end. (I don't know why; but I "flush red" and get all "blood engorged" when I read your very, VERY PASSIONATE WORKS!...I keep saying to myself, "There must be more!"
Do you have a collection of all these wonderful offerings in a book?
Please let me know and I will gladly purchase it! <smile>
Who knew the Wright's had a trunk full of hidden family secrets? Searching for treasure and hidden family secrets is one way to fuel the flames of passion.
Shirine McVey discovers that twenty years of her life have elapsed since she went to sleep in a hotel room in El Paso, Texas. And worse, she is married to a man she doesn't know.
