The limits are everywhere. Starting with the skin, this giant organ who makes an impassable fence between you and everything else. And goes through the language, these thought’s boxes that provides us a limited numbers of drawings and sounds to explain the infinity of internal experience, and even so it act as if it’s enough. And we try, you know. I speak English and Portuguese and some of French, all bad.
What I really understand is the life’s language.
Actually I understand the sun much better than my thoughts.
I would love to be the sun.
Outside the limites, on this precious and impassive instant of art sowing, I realize that I would like to create the sun. Is it too much?
The earth, the love, the humanity. I wanna see my body reinventing time and rebuild with my heart cells the ongoing soundtrack so commonly out of the desirable rhythm.
No, It’s not enough to make a drawing or a film.
I wanna be the tiny drops dancing on the air, and the imperative, deeply and high, solid mountain. The snow… I wanna fall slowly and soft and then grow green and sweet and change colour when the time comes, like an apple.
I gotta be on the houses
at mother’s dinners and feel the differently tastes of love, and after that change to the form of the fire living on the young’s shinning eyes.
Where is it? How can I go for it? Is there any coach or app?
Tell me, small animal biting me right now, where on your tiny body do you put your life’s expectations?
I know sun, I got you. You’re the one not listening to me. Please tell me, what should I do?
Well, by the silent of your rays I suppose you don’t speak English.
Maybe we should try in French, from the very begining,
Je m'appelle Isadora.
Opmerkingen