Death takes everything from you except who you truly are.

From time to time i meet a social worker, we are getting accustomed to each other and i'm quite familiar with her now, i smile when i see her wearing high heels and a short straight skirt while she must be around fifty.
Today she made me wait for another thirty minutes in the waiting room, when finally she introduced me in her office she appologized that was her fault for messing up several meetings and i said "That's ok i always have a book with me!", and then she became curious at the colorful cover and bent over her desk to read the title of the book that i had put on a chair near mine, so i picked it and showed it to her, she opened a notebook and scribbled the infos, the title, the editor, and the author, and i asked amused "why are you noting that?!" and she replied with a playful smile "Because it seems interesting i'm going to search it for myself." "What is it about?" she continued, taking time over the very matter we actually should be discussing, i said "Oh that's highly sexual, i wasn't expecting that, it's the human intimate relations from the point of view of cats, sort of, my sister lent it to me." I felt she was even more stirred and interested hearing that first detail, and finally we started our interview in that cheeky playful atmosphere. Eh eh!

Misery

I'm waiting for a girl who could cry in my arms listening to such songs.
Because if she gets this close in such a fragile moment that means she trusts me fully, and if she cries that means we feel the same way.
I'm waiting and that's my misery. (Because loving is dangerous to me.)

The style over the substance

Here's a piece of personal philosophy : i don't care carving poetic and convoluted sentences when i have something to say that i deem important, a point to make. I surely prefer to be clear, if there's something to learn from it, complex sentences and stylish efforts seem pompous to me and most people, as they're not in your brain to get its functioning, will skip the meaning and crucial message of your text. Words are bricks and writting is a frivolous game.

The Mind Pilgrimages

I never forget the places i've visited, as small as it is, even a simple room, neither the persons i got along with for a while, even if for just one week of vacation in a resort town near the ocean, places and people i would never see again, i'm enclined to experiment, check new angles and new personalities, which can become a recurrent part of my life for some time, then we let go, naturally, melancholy stays in the memories i cherish, but there's a discovery in each step we make, and curiosity fuels me, sometimes i wonder how i could have spent so much time in a place which appears sordid and gloomy in the reconstruction of my memory, or with someone that i recall now had nothing in common with me, but my mentality is that everything and everyone is interesting, i give myself a chance to get close to the difference, and then i go on.

I slept away from my appartment for some time recently, to the suburb in a tiny white room under the roof, with posters on the walls, Kurt Cobain, James Dean, and that french pop singer, bubblegum look and variety, clothes and cardboard lying all over the wooden floor, a small bed under a single window from which i could watch the clouds when i was resting, the disrupting sound of the creaking stairs, and the swampy smell of the wide field outside, the bail is out, i will never go there again, she moved, i remember she poked me with her arms and legs when she rolled over while sleeping, her deep breath and peaceful dark face and slashed skin, the keen discussions we had starring at the ceiling, the lessons and the hugs, and now it's on to a new stage, it has changed, i'm waiting for the next phase.