Patches from Fragments

 [When realizing everything you know is less than everything you have to learn -- a striking and thriving ambition growing inside your whole integrity as a holy ghost seeking Time & Space anywhere and anytime -- you fall asleep with waking nightmares.]

[My thoughts can only expand to reach dark and bright extremes these days. My soul speaks words of light while my body cling to the pain of days that never change. I need an adventure outside of life to seek Life itself. The only way to freedom is through everyday life restraints and flaws. I need to understand what impulse my heart gets when my blood materialize into armies shouldering their way through my veins. I need to feel my body completely and concentrate to catch a glimpse of reality.]

[Ambition is tricky. You sleepwalk with sounds emanating from your dried lips in the middle of the night after the cathedral's bells chimed. You whisper words unknown to any living creature. You mumble and groan and thunder your secrets to yourself with a frustration never felt before. Whether you find a way to shape your thoughts and words and life or not, you can't help but withdraw yourself from the outside world. The words confined in your head you call soul shrink and run away from you. What if writing was a mistake? What if the solution could not be spoken until I find my target. I cannot believe in my writing with no hunting like images but I lack the maturity and the manhood to express myself the way I want people to see me the way I am. I let the masks fall.]

[It seems a bit of an answer is writing itself, yet, without me willing to let it free – even for me to understand the bits and pieces set free outside my own head. It feels like a neverending symphony with cords vibrating and burning under arches too heavy to let go off the tempo of a majestic pulse. It's all about someone's heart beating.]

Sole Di Mezzanotte

I'm drunk so I don't really know where this is going... As you may know if you're paying attention to international news these days, northern France is under the snow and my hometown is right in the middle of the freezing weather. I decided to open the bottle of whiskey friends of my parents' offered to me for Christmas and it feels like I do enjoy the addiction to (or at least the occasional) intoxication... If you got the time to read the brief news I provided to you a couple of days ago, my life is suspended until this coming September. so I decided to stop my studies for if I continued I swear you would have gotten no news from me for I would have killed myself for so much disappointment with myself and the way people treated me at the university and especially the way my crooked yet inspired mind see the world... I do feel like I have a long life ahead of me and so many stories waiting deep down to be told in a language worth fighting against to discover these very crooked visions of mine. The more I read literary criticism, the less I see a point in defining literature... Lemme explain... Regarding, writing, reading, the relationship between the two and the way I picture myself in the middle of this endless fight for truth through art, I can't figure out how to bridge over the world of the one who studies things with a stone instead of a heart and the world of passion and fascination... I can't rely on my Cartesian spirit any more (provided that I ever had any straight way of thinking and seeing and studying things... I have been reading this book for over a month now entitled "Literary Space" by Maurice Blanchot and I can't help but feel estranged from the world of those who think straight and intellectuals.

All in all, I don't think I am made to understand things anymore but I am ready to give in my emotions to feel the world and embrace my own way of telling what I won't ever have the condescension to call 'truth'... In the book I just mentioned I felt betrayed somehow by my favorite French theorist... He gave up to believing that art is meant to be bound to death and solitude by delineating both willing death and letting it come to you and both being reluctant to build a life with any one but yourself thus rejecting any kind of closeness and living a life with caring people and people who hate you around you... He draws an apology of solitude and death through suicide as of those were serving art for art yet questioning the very existence of Literature itself... I tried to hold on to what I could relate to but I could not help but feel awfully way away from this argumentation. And then I started to wander back in where no one could ever dream of walking, at the very back of my expanding brains where I get lost way too often and where I am the only to get the rules of places there where no human spirit could wander unless he or she would turn into a void which no words would describe I myself would feel like to flee my own head with no guilt at all except maybe the weird kind of pain one feels when he or she knows that he or she is wrong to let someone be hit or raped and all of those things you'd let anyone endure just because you are too proud to be alive to get to understand what it really means to be ok even if you're wrong... I know I do sound strange but on the other hand, I realize I can't think straight and I have to build my own world through words by means of journals or novels or plays or anything that could relate to art so that one day, someone would know what I mean when I say that there is nothing but the power "commitment" at any level worth being fought for down on earth...

I evolve in life with no God, no proof of any god of any kind except the one I am... For there is no God, I could only be my own through my own eyes and touch and hearing and all... I create the world as I feel it as I disagree with it. I can't agree with anything since I am the one making any of my feeling real. I refuse standards at all costs and embrace madness and self-destruction by letting FREEDOM go through my entire being. I want freedom at all cost and I refuse any dictatorship such as religions, laws and universities... the three of them define exactly what it means to belong to the common of people... I mean, that if you don't belong to the elite of intellectuals, politicians and theological bullshits, you are nothing but something under anything that would ever get the grip of any knowledge to get the chance to free yourself... I walk in the streets and observe people anywhere I go and realize we are puppets made by wrongly motivated societies to perpetuate the species of the human race. It is a whole machinery meant to please the top of those who live with power while those who are meant to crawl down in dirt are also meant to make the elite believe that it is meant to be this way. Oh how I wish I could not sound crazy right now for I do realize that my words and ideas look like those of a kid refusing any king of rules and realities BUT it IS FREEDOM I am craving for...

More on that later.