Adrift

Lately, I've been thinking about the meaning of life. 
And, i found out, the correct word to describe it, would be rather attractive than amusing. 
Questions of purpose, goal and the source of passion.
Wearing colorful clothes, up to style and fashion.
What's smart, What's noble, and What's under the table.
Then, i had this thought, regarding the passage of time.
The fight to lead is sublime.
Work hard. Fly the kite. Stand up,
For the light.

My world

My world begins with the leisurely concentration of a woman selecting a belt to go with her dress…There, there everything strikes one by its bewitching evidence, by the simplicity of perfect good; there everything pleases one’s soul, everything is filled with the kind of fun that children know; there shines the mirror that now and then sends a chance reflection here.

Note: expressions taken from Vladimir Nabokov's *Invitation to a beheading*

l'histoire d'un drapeau

Like ideas, when they are floating around, and an orchestrator shows up in your mind. The savvy orcherstrator, aware of the rules of Language, puts some aside and connects the rest. Just like that, last night I thought of my country's flag

A Good Death

* What's your name?

*You are silent. I was just trying to see your eyes when you say it. You know I know your name.

-Why?

*Now, that you know that you have always known it. Why the question?

-Questioning is life.

*Or death.

-Well, I think my answer is fear.

*You know it's an illusion.

-But, time!

*That is real.

-Yes! You know! Sometimes I feel like I am a visitor from the future, who, by mere accident, lost the memory of his home; and is trying, by seeking traces of civilization, to recreate it. Even that last thought is dead.

*A good death.

-How?

*Listen, Fear and Time are your enemies, and you mustn't allow an enemy to see your eyes without a sense of intimidation.

-That also is an illusion.

*Try to understand! Everyone is committed to illusions. But, only the ones who make their own, can become real.

-But, not true!

*Maybe! Maybe your home is.

I still remember, the day we met. The school, kids, and the soccer ball. I can see him there, as true as I thought he would be. In his mind, I can see a drifted mind. Wait! I can see his fear. As a long standing snow flake waiting to melt in early-spring, he was waiting. Silent, in a time where language had only one word. Unlike truth, she said, Ideas can be created and killed in our minds. I painted a school, kids, a soccer ball, and a crown. I painted a road, I walked. I painted rocks, snakes, and a clever young boy. Stumbled, beaten by a toy!

Unlike Ideas, she said, with me, you can only hope for a good dance. I still remember, I still do, Hope! Il y'a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais, je ne t'oublierai.

A weakness that can not find a cure. Illusion de ne pouvior jamais oublier cette allure. In pursuit of a mind that remains pure. I missed sunlight, for then, I was insecure.

I hold myself guilty of letting guilt crawl into my thoughts and hide your persisting beautiful image. At those few moments when I beat my fear, I see you in those first red rays of the sun at dawn, in the raging waves of a deep blue sea. In that hopeful and sharp look of a child, in that only place where I can see an unquestionable truth. I see you in my mind, gazing at me, with that all-secure, from-all protecting look. If I ever close my mind in fear again, rest your eyes in mine, so that it opens.

Note: Some of the sentences are highly affected by already published books. In particular, *Invitation to a Beheading* by Vladimir Nabokov, and *1984* by George Orewell.