so one day i'll fly away-
not so far now...
separation in life and living
means separation,
i love the richness of life too much,
scent, flowers, trees and rivers
and this love is sensual-
too much is lost in discussion
and denial and in looking away-
it is enough to be old,
why have it always in mind
and be dead before it is time?
i have died many times,
i have been born many times.
i don't know what else to feel
anymore, i cannot approach it,
here i am in a thick coat of armour
finding what i don't like so i don't wish
what i cannot do.
i needed my appetite lost...
a love which is not connected
to me is no love, to me
including my sensual presence-
a love per se does not exist:
it is a fake, an invention,
an esoteric and moralist if
not even puritan construct.
reality is not rigid.
even water runs...
i run already too far.
i live, i don't exist.
as this is about helplessness and a silence and stillness
where nobody is welcome and where hope drowns in
the sand of inner deserts, a sand which muffles the other's voice,
and as this is about joy shared and about vulnerability and truth,
emotional honesty given and non-given:
it means nothing here. just a diary note.
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