Wednesday, 21 November 2012

00:00

00:00 Thika Road. Coming back from a late dinner with a a Spanish guy who told me: I'm happy. And I told him: I'm happy also. But we were not hungry so we didn't eat anything. He was telling me stories about hungry lions, about hungry leopards, every single word was about stomachs, about food. But on the table there was just Coke. Normal for him. Diet for me. I was telling him stories about believing so much in something, so much that when loss knocks on the door, everything has been scorched by our own passion.

I'm listening to Philip Glass. Fat insects crash against my car. Accidents can produce beauty, I thought. The insect's black blood is stars, is planets, it is drawing constellations on the car's glass. I'm feeling small, and mad, and young, and out of control. I step on the gas. I know I could crash whenever. My own accident. My blood producing beauty on the road.

I arrive home. I eat a mango. I brush my teeth. Game over. I tried. Game over.

3 comments:

  1. Please, don't.
    Drive carefully.
    Live caref…nah!! Not so…

    Love your words. Love your beauty.
    Just take care…

    ReplyDelete
  2. Pues yo creo que eres mucho más bella así, que derramando tu sangre en un camino...
    Miles de besos.


    B.

    ReplyDelete
  3. " Accidents can produce beauty, I thought"

    you're right.
    in fact, i've dropped here by accident.
    and that's what i've found: beauty.

    ReplyDelete