The story I'm going to tell, is not my story.
It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own.
The dream I will remember, won't be mine.
It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own.
I think of stories I like to make stories.
To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up.
When I wake up, it'll happen again.
It'll start all over...
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Your absence.Seconds, hours, years, centuries.
All relative to an arbitrary, random point. Lives. Feels as if you have lived centuries ago. What do you remember from that? Your presence. Can you feel the absence of someone you haven't met, of someone who doesn't exist of someone whose face you don't remember. Someone lives in our house, someone lives our lives. Do you have any idea how is it to live in the ice? Paralyzed, unable to react.