...a Valentine's page...

....my "wishing well" is under construction, the milkwhite sophisticated vellum sheet lays stretched by light gummed paper on a hard
cardboard on my desk, inks and pens and colours, all sort of strange funny objects around - I'm giving fire to my last cigarette and
to my tiredness, it must be about half past midnight, my eyes are closed my head wrecks in a cloud of divine azure smoke,
but something comes floating to the surface of this floating bluewinter cold night of february - a souvenir, a thought, a suddden
intense soul pain, I stand up and run to my computer, search for this old page, unreasonably decide to post it on my LJ...here's
to you Friends, old text old image found don't konw how on the same mental path, and still don't know why, this unreasonable impulse
seems not to have meaning nor reasons...:

...because we don’t get old by simply reading the hour on merciless clocks, by lazily ripping the sheets of unforgiving calendars - no, sure…& now you’ll start speaking of the body of the mirror - aren’t you? - to tell me all those words already heard, serious heavy bitter sentences...do you perhaps think I can’t say, see, figure out all this by myself? right, we do suffer continuous attacks, gratuitous assaults, as our little Reason says they are - and the claws of Time are called Anxiety, Body, Fears Limits Illnesses, and Fatigue, and more, Weepings, and Solitudes...

...no. let me tell you, my heart, that these ridiculous weapons of a false time are harmless, they will blunt without even scratching the diamond glass of your Being - I, my dear, I assert that the nightblue sapphire of your pure Mind doesn’t even know what to do with such a biological, moldy, such a simple and crude, imperfect, a so severe but so unuseful stuff...

...I must tell you, my sweetest, that this is only pain. serious, yes - oh I know, raw true hard, often unbearable - but no more than pain, in lower case letters, in minuscule breathings...the biology of a head too tied to her body, and maybe to the one of someone else, just diseased cells, nothing but restless neurons gone crazy - oh that bad!, what d’ya say?, this stuff is too salty, my God help me, where are my glasses?, if I were twenty years’ younger!, your skin is too wrinkly to be loved, uuuh that horrible smell of dirty of locked room...

...no. yet no, my sweetie, no - it’s not this, getting old, that would be too a foolish natural unfair injustice, this is not enough - and the Death, then!, the great illusion...oh no, my honey, if one simplest Love defeats even the most rotting putrefaction, will you still believe to such a...a garbage bucket filled with our ghosts? ah, my dearest…we grow old, really definitely seriously, without any hope without any salvation - only if we become unable to see, to understand, to live the Beauty.

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...a Valentine's page... - yorukamome