Very intimate diaries 18

I’m dried up of words. Feeling arid. I am confused, disoriented, unbalanced. I can no longer find the words to say my mental drought.

My well is almost dry. I can scarcely fill it, refresh it. I stroll like a reeling unfinished-life drunk.

I cry dry tears which scratch my face by digging life ruts. My inner-ocean of noises is emptied.

I'm lost among my words, drowned in my sentences and crushed by my pages.

The not to be able to say vacuum is so intense as it pierces me the inside as a dulled and rusty blade of clichés.

I can’t manage to come to light in a poetic way anymore. The poetry within me became dried out ink of arid prose.

I remain lost listening myself writing words. I can feel the ridiculous lives of my words, subjects without subjects. I jump from one sentence to another like a leapfrog of meaning. I lost the thread of my scrappy ideas.

I got lost a long, long time. I searched in black ink the light of my words. And then I woke up...

And now I’m found…

Very intimate diaries  17

I sprinkled my daily life with always alert and ready anti-personnel landmines to tear away an arm of the mind, a mental leg, at the slightest movement outside the concrete path of my life.

I walk every day in this cramped trail zigzagging between regrets, remorse and rejections dotted along this narrow cemented route. And I managed to scamper with a light step despite the heaviness of my feelings.

Moving forward, non-stop, I fear every footstep thinking it might be the last stride.

But bit by bit I learned to defuse most of these "anti-me " bombs. I manage to remove each of the pieces which make up them, each time I found love. Love of oneself.

Such a complex work to live simply.