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Love is not love.

Love is not sex,

nor calm,

nor temporary,

nor dependent,

it can’t be resumed;

love is sex

love is calm,

is temporary,

is dependent,

it can be resumed.

I don’t love,

I etern’u.

She was walking in a large, noisy street. The smoke, the cars, the signs overwhelmed her. In a turn, she decided she couldn’t take it no longer, and she walked back to her apartment. The confusion from the outside had been transferred to the inside. Shakespeare, Fowles, Flaubert, Barnes and Freud occupied her sofa. Dirty dishes had taken over her kitchen. Even the floor had been conquered by clothes. She couldn’t go back outside or stay inside. The phone rang. Just on the last ring she picked it up. The steady and familiar voice on the other side spoke some ordinary words. The house seemed cozy during those minutes. They hang up. She couldn’t run away, her confusion was right in front of her eyes. The phone rang again. This time it was a sharp and savvy voice she could always reproduce in her head. He just wanted to know how she was doing. He didn’t want to let go. They hang up. She called him back. She told him how she felt like Madame Bovary, and Anne, and Edna and Miranda. How she couldn’t stay or leave. How everything was out of place. As they talked, she washed the dishes, put her clothes up, brought the books down. They hang up. The first voice was on the door. She met him, they kissed. The house was clean. She was home again.

– why do you like reading all these novels?

– they are interesting, they make me think about all sorts of things and be able to see new layers of everything I experience.

– but they’re lies!

– well, yes, I can’t disagree with that, but I don’t see a problem with that either.

– reading real things, facts, gives you a much better picture of “everything you experience”. I don’t understand how someone would rather read lies instead of reality.

– hum…texts are always biased, even when they are strictly describing a fact. But hum, don’t you like jokes?

– yes, but that’s different…

– in what ways?

– it’s for entertainment

– novels can’t be entertaining?

– they’re not funny, you were just telling me how you feel disgusted that you are inside the mind of a guy who kidnapped a girl… I don’t understand how you can feel all those things if you know they’re not true.

– because while you are reading it, it is your reality, your truth.

– but you know it’s fake, it’s a lie

– you did believe in Santa, right?

– yes

– it’s the same thing

– no, it’s not, because you don’t know it is a lie

– but now that you do, you still want to tell your children Santa exists

– yes

– why?

– because it is fun, it’s a pleasant and harmless activity in family

– so it’s a good lie

– you’re getting away from the point, why do you like to deliberately read lies? how or why does it add to your life? I know you can like anything you want to. I still don’t understand how you can feel all these things knowing they are lies.

– ok, so you said you can understand children because they don’t know Santa doesn’t exist. when you open a book, you are a child, you believe Santa exists. Santa is the story, your parents are the author , the presents are the feelings/thoughts you get from reading.

– that doesn’t make sense, why would someone write, considering your theory, if he can’t see you are having fun with his presents?

– I hope that fundamentally parents buy presents for the sake of giving a present, for the family moment, the interaction, the sharing. I would risk say that’s the greatest pleasure in writing: sharing. I think it’s kind of implicit that the person who opens the book will believe in the story and take something out of it, sort of a pact between author and reader. and, anyway, much more concrete are the critics; almost an incarnation of this pact…

– alright, but I still don’t want to read the book

– ok, I didn’t ask you to

– but if you want to tell me the story you can

– I will

My first digital drawings!

My tablet just arrived! I’m so excited!

Why, why, why do I have so many books to read???

– I don’t know what you are talking about.

You two have been talking for about half an hour. You are trying to get your point across, he is doing the same. Healthy, nice, warm debate. Then when you reach that place, that almost intangible place, where he knows he will be left without his (un)carefully welded armor of truths, he says: “I don’t know what you ‘re talking about”. Of course he doesn’t.  You can try to explain it again, say it in other words, it doesn’t matter. “You’re making no sense”. He wants to not think about it. For you it’s left a decision: is it arrogance or cowardice?

I love how we say mother nature, instead of father nature.
And that we go back and forth in our believes refining them.
Unfortunately, there’s quite few people paying attention to the constant and subtle changes around them.

Anachronic

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