II - About Love to the land one's born

Here I am, an adulterer before you, my life. One day you took me to the altar with your best formal dress. I swore eternal love to you under a linen and shroud flag, the victor's mourning. You didn't give me the chance to choose. A hand that wasn't mine brought your chin to me, and when you kissed me you didn't realize that it wasn't me who was kisssing you back. My path was decided. Now I look at you and I still love you, but without nostalgia. Along the way, others offered the hospitality of their blankets to me, their dawns' warmth, the inviting smell of their kitchens. I 've brought you inside of me. Despite my unfaithfulness, I've been loyal. Unconditionally, I've gone to sleep in some bedchambers and woken up in others. Whenever I laid my hat I shared you without realizing that you were sharing me too, whether you wanted to or not. Without guilt, I can't offer what a part of you is asking of me. Understand that if someone calls me I should go, the same as when you used to call me. I won't allow you to lock the door, I won't withstand the egomaniacal chants of your greatness, despite the fact that you gave me more than the others did. I love you,... but I do it in my way.

I - About Love and Time

We often deny seeing love as an hourglass, as precious as time and as fragile as glass. Not even handling it by its slimmest part makes it possible to count its grains. At best, we crush it with the hope of injuring the fingertips enough to lose feeling in our hands. In the end, our memory fails and we fall off the wagon. I consider love as time, if you force yourself to get anchored to it, it becomes the long waiting before the disaster. To want to survive love seems like waiting to climb the flow of sand when it is coming to an end: Ashes as the only company looking up from the bottom of a narrow abyss. It seems impossible that so much hope and desperation, every glance and every horizon fit into such a small hole. In that state of mind, anxiousness and euphoria make us blind to beauty outside the glass: "I forgot about Dali because I only remember the surprise on your face" or " I wrote the poem that your lips dictated to me" are just two examples of the trikle of grains that spirits us away from transcendence.