By Massimo Usai
As I’ve written somewhere else in the past, perhaps during another lifetime, “you don’t always have something to say. You can’t always say something. In the last week, I didn’t have much to say, but the little I had to say, I couldn’t even write it on my blog.”
But from today, I am again in the company of words, feelings, and memories.
I feel I’m in tune again with the blank pages to be filled, like a child who loves to play with stones and is adoring to look at the thousand notes left around, on pieces of paper, on different notebooks of which I am mainly provided.
I must have some problems with agendas, notebooks, notebooks: I buy them in an inconclusive way. If I like the cover, the inner paper, I believe these notebooks, which I often fill with only two or three written pages, because then I see another one and it seems better than the previous one.
There are half stories, whole stories, attempts at poems, phrases that I often have to try to understand what they are connected to.
Words, judgments, discussions, news, poems… One day I will put them in order, like my photos, which are now thousands.
Later, but from today, I promise, I want to try to do it myself before it is a task for others when my body will no longer be on this Earth.
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