Fleeting facts

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I always have this in my head: And so… Or this one: And then… I see Blogger’s posting screen and these words.

And so _________ bla bla bla

And so nothing. Why do I feel like it’s such an important opening line? Hundreds of stories, none my own, have used it. And so many others.

I need more words.

And this conversation that keeps circling around my lack of conviction. Towards my life in general.

And these letters I wrote and deleted and rewrote and saved as draft.

Nothing is clean. Nothing is certain. Not even the numbers on the clock. See? They’ve changed already.

Like our perception of a future. Like the idea of that moment’s death.

Every single thought cannot be represented in the lines I’ve created. Spwed in sighs, grunts and gasps. Uttered under my breath.

More and more I reach out. And retreat in fear. This great sentiment of oneness can be so fragile at times, it’s hard to believe being two, even for a second, cannot be of any comfort.

That two is a sum. Never one. Adding and substracting to the rythm of the keys being pushed in. Yet all the words I know seems to have been used.

Not being able to say, does it mean it has no meaning? No importance? An urge yes, but what kind of reality, of life, do I instill in the thoughts by laying them here?

And so… The words are not made of dreams. But with a little luck, I’ll bring my dreams into my words. Where they will live in safety and the knowledge that they exist.
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