STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

 “Yellow paper and a red pen.” That’s what she said. “Write with a pencil,” he said, “it’s smoother on paper.” Write what comes to mind as it comes to mind, that’s what I imagine Virginia would’ve said. A stream of consciousness is what is there for you to see, to know, to understand perhaps. Hills or oceans it doesn’t matter. Life changes in the instant, the ordinary instant. “Why be tormented?” I asked, and followed that question all way long, all our way long. Here I am in a city that used to be ours. Here or there, the nights were ours; we always found our way around the sleeping city. Wandered around the streets of chaos and coldness, searching for warmth and companionship. One is searching for what one feels they’re ought to find. But, also, as much as one loves this city, they know they would never stay. I am here now to question my so-called peace amid chaos itself. Looking for scraps of what is left of hope, serenity and wisdom. Roaming the streets at day, searching f...

 “Yellow paper and a red pen” she said. "Use a pencil,” he said, “it’s smoother on paper.” Write whatever comes to mind as it comes to mind, that's what I imagine Virginia would’ve said. A stream of consciousness is sometimes what is needed to see, to perceive, to absorb. I am not a robot. That’s what keeps on playing in my head. I am connected to people, things -to life. This connection brings me back to Earth, makes me grounded, even when I feel like I’m floating up in space.  Going back to thoughts of connections, of emotional bonding with whomever I’ve encountered, I remember Amal. We’ve just had a phone call, one that can be anything but light. “Do you believe? I don’t care if you do or don’t, but it is true.” She kept on repeating this sentence one way or the other for a full hour. And in my head, I had no doubts that it was true. We are connected to the people around us, even when they’re thousands of kilometers away. We’re connected in ways I cannot fathom nor absorb...

  “Yellow paper and a red pen” she said.  “Write with a pencil,” he said, “it’s smoother on paper”. Write what comes to mind as it comes to mind, that’s what I imagine Virginia would’ve said. A stream of consciousness, either written or spoken out loud, is sometimes all you need to see. Dizzy and foggy as your days. Using past words because you have not yet received today’s. Smaller, neater handwriting that perhaps says something about one’s soul. One’s actions speak, and what does this say? I feel myself trapped in a room with yellowish wallpaper that’s doing me nothing but driving me mad. I feel myself a part of every book ever written; I am the characters in some movie that I call my life; I am the very ink used in writing each character ever created. I am neither here nor there; my self is stuck in the middle, where it actually belongs. I am neither a neat handwriting, nor am I a strong, bold one. I am nothing. I feel nothing. I think of nothing. I breathe nothing. ...

 “Yellow paper and a red pen.” That’s what she said. “Write with a pencil,” he said, “it’s smoother on paper.” Write what comes to mind as it comes to mind, that’s what I imagine Virginia would’ve said. A stream of consciousness is what is there for you to see, to know, to understand perhaps. Hills or oceans it doesn’t matter. Life changes in the instant, the ordinary instant. Fear comes and then goes as if it has never existed. Attacking with all its might, with all our might. And what is there that might happen then? A question to never be answered but with a reckless soul going, simply, straight and fast. Losing something, scraps of information here and there in the rhymes of words and paragraphs. In hills and wooden chairs lying on some random beach. Wood is killed by the waters, and that is why it is the most natural place for it to be. Low notes cover the entry to Eve’s Garden, at the gate of eternity; they cover our eternity. And the end would anyways pursue the dead. ...