Soulscape

The lavender ink dries out slowly, shinning on the roundness of the calligraphic signs until the air breathes in the moisture and sets them on the paper for good. Each new page is like a groomed slope in the morning - after that first run there will be no other beginning.

I am driving alone on the winding road. Spring is here to stay. The wind smells of melting snow and burning patchouli incense. The mountain is immersed in silence and fog. I still hold a slight headache, like a whining puppy: too much wine and too little sleep. I left the poetry behind a cloud of adrenaline and amazement. I coloured a few more grey areas and expanded my comfort map.

My soul is turning into an old fortress, a lasting gothic church with towers, cellars and tombs, with light showers coming down the ceiling-high windows. Falling in love is much easier than falling out of love.

My self and my ego run along its corridors, nervously spiralling up and down the stairways, frantically closing and opening doors that should have been iron sealed a while ago. They fly low like two shadows about to touch the ground. One of them keeps sending me on the same dead-end road in an infinitely painful loop.