We are therefore obliged to go forward, compelled to continue our history as if it was interrupted by an advertising interlude. It would be nice if at this point the words were no longer printed on the screen, but were read by a female voice. As if our history we were told by others. Like we know already that a word will follow another, always with the same cadence, the same sound. Gliding in this way, the item would be left to follow, in the depths of experience, in the attics of the imagination, in the heat of action and in the richness of the dialogues. We would go on like this until the end of words, be lulled by the visions, different for everyone, have the intimacy of what no one else can know the warmth of a place inaccessible to anyone trying to get there.
The problem is that this does not happen often. There are no words. There is no female voice that reads our actions, explaining to ourselves, telling us - or at least making us guess - where we are going. Where is the narrator of our life? Where are the sentences on which to let go, forget ourselves for a while ', lost in adventure and travel, including hiking trails and dusty? Where is our life?
E 'as if history had reached a certain point, there was the intermission ads and, finally, the voice was not returned. Then I found myself alone to watch a fixed space without perceiving depth. What was I doing? My mouth was slurred and his eyes still enchanted, but the phenomenon was more curious ears. Where is what filled? What is this feeling of emptiness? No response. I look around, waiting to resume the voice telling me what I see, I do not know what I see, what I feel, what to do. I do not know. I can imagine what the voice would say, but I'm not the voice, and above all do not know what to tell you about what is around me.
"We are now obliged to go forward, to continue our history, although the voice did not return after the separation of advertising. The objects, people, situations are immersed in a cold obscenities. I try to put two words in a row, but the result is a burst of vocal diarrhea. As the opposite of King Midas transformed into shit everything I touch. I look at the lamp, I say 'light'. But there is a lamp: it is crap. E 'shit because it has the taste of lamp that was there before. E 'shit because, despite everything, I will know forever that's not true what I'm saying. I'll know how to fool myself and others. I tell you, 'lamp', you think 'lamp', but it's shit. A nice catch. Believe me, if I knew how to do, if I felt the voice somewhere she would speak, or maybe I would make an amplifier. The problem is that I do not feel, so I have to trick and deceive myself, selling to all lamps that are not lamps. But what can you ask me, I am disappointed as you, except to admit that I do not know what I'm saying? "
Sig.Q
