Dear Diary (page 5)
Dear Diary,
it's a sleepless night, and lying in my bed is an equation of suffering. Perfect excuse to rise up and dirt a page.
Night multiplies minutes. When all seems longlasting, thoughts have room to bounce upon the walls of memory, and resonate.
Have I ever told you I was married even in a lifetime ago? Don't point me mad, it's no kidding. Many times nowadays, in the daytime family routines, I have glimpses of how it was. In a word, harmony.
There was harmony hanging over around in everything we did, in everything we created, in everything we wrote. Our home was made of light, and our twin daughters were two flowers dangling in the slow wind of our love. We never needed to explain or justify an action, our solitary attitude was our togetherness. Making love was more like swimming in a warm sea, pleasantly accomplished by the simple gift of letting our souls come alive to the surface of breath and feel closer to each other. Lunches and dinners were our praises to the joy of life.
We lived a long life together in a place surrounded by a conifers' wood, near a medium-sized lake. The sea wasn't far. We loved to walk, I remember, for long hours without saying a word, hearts lulled by the rhythm of our steps and the birdsongs in the trees.
It's no kidding, believe me. Don't let your paper giggle.
When it happens it's amazing, fulfilling, devastating. Souls know when they've met before, and it's quite tough to tame their will to rejoin. And you even start considering the eventuality to wait for another lifetime, knowing you'll do anything to avoid this, 'cause a body aches for a real body just like a soul aches for another soul.
Why am I telling you all this, Diary? For a simple number: eleven. Many years for a marriage, don't you think? A miraculous milestone, looking back at my recent past.
Sometimes the will of a body is stronger than the will of a soul. But now sorry, Diary; I won't go on, because I can't write this book of love alone. One day, all this web will unmask the spider. And the writers.
Dear Diary (page 5)
Dear Diary,
it's a sleepless night, and lying in my bed is an equation of suffering. Perfect excuse to rise up and dirt a page.
Night multiplies minutes. When all seems longlasting, thoughts have room to bounce upon the walls of memory, and resonate.
Have I ever told you I was married even in a lifetime ago? Don't point me mad, it's no kidding. Many times nowadays, in the daytime family routines, I have glimpses of how it was. In a word, harmony.
There was harmony hanging over around in everything we did, in everything we created, in everything we wrote. Our home was made of light, and our twin daughters were two flowers dangling in the slow wind of our love. We never needed to explain or justify an action, our solitary attitude was our togetherness. Making love was more like swimming in a warm sea, pleasantly accomplished by the simple gift of letting our souls come alive to the surface of breath and feel closer to each other. Lunches and dinners were our praises to the joy of life.
We lived a long life together in a place surrounded by a conifers' wood, near a medium-sized lake. The sea wasn't far. We loved to walk, I remember, for long hours without saying a word, hearts lulled by the rhythm of our steps and the birdsongs in the trees.
It's no kidding, believe me. Don't let your paper giggle.
When it happens it's amazing, fulfilling, devastating. Souls know when they've met before, and it's quite tough to tame their will to rejoin. And you even start considering the eventuality to wait for another lifetime, knowing you'll do anything to avoid this, 'cause a body aches for a real body just like a soul aches for another soul.
Why am I telling you all this, Diary? For a simple number: eleven. Many years for a marriage, don't you think? A miraculous milestone, looking back at my recent past.
Sometimes the will of a body is stronger than the will of a soul. But now sorry, Diary; I won't go on, because I can't write this book of love alone. One day, all this web will unmask the spider. And the writers.