WHO IS RENEN?
ABOUT "A SENSE OF REALITY DROWNED IN THEATRE"
My back is bent and I'm already hearing my mother's voice saying: "why are you seated like a question mark?". I guess I have no other choice than sitting this way.
As I'm writing, I begin to feel the pressure on the lower vertebrae. I'm straightening my back. I don't think it will change a lot. It is just an outside correction. My back is slowly melting into a curve again. You see mom, sometimes one has to take a specific shape.
I'm mutating. I'm here and Here, as well as hEre, heRe, HEre and herE, all at the same time. The different forms of typing mark different locations. I myself don't know exactly where they are.
A person is leaving a place with an emotional attachment.
What place? Why is he leaving? And then, subsequently,
we could proceed to- why attachment? and why baggage? and how on earth did I learn the word "emotional"?
I stumble into quicker steps than I can afford. My rhythm doesn't correlate correctly with a certain pace that pounds within me. It's as if my feet have taken the decision: this will be the right pace for you, oblivious to the rest that runs within me.
Or perhaps well aware of it all, and nevertheless bring another rhythm, the walking rhythm.
And so, I'm walking to the sound of many different rhythms. The rhythm of my legs and the rhythm of my
heart and the rhythm of
my thoughts and the rhythm of the crust around my brain that in the last days seems to have grown thicker
and the rhythms of the thoughts I'm unable to conceive and the rhyhtm of the walk that walks within me
and of the emotions: 1, 2, 3, another that I don't know its color and one that I'm tracing its origin right now.
And I forgot to mention:
The wind, the hues, and the shout which is not shouted.
An emotional attachment? Or an emotional baggage? What was I trying to say? A person is leaving a place, we can start with this: A person is leaving a place.
A Sense of Reality Drowned in Theatre