Eternal of one second

There is something in astrology called North Node and it is directly related to our life purpose. I don't know exactly what that means, but I have to find out. I hope my life purpose isn't something I hate. I pray it isn't. I'm tired today, but the day is beautiful. Nature doesn't care, it's sovereign at all times. So I'll do what I do every day, run and smell the flowers and watch the river move. There is nothing to do but to be, simply to be.

Yesterday I was running and every time I passed under a tree I felt the most wonderful perfume. I kept imagining that this is love, a perfume that we feel, something ephemeral, but at the same time, something that permeates our memory, our life.

There is something in the world that surpasses all understanding. Yesterday I went running, and while I was running, it felt like I was floating. I felt that I was going astray, I do not know why I felt that, but it was like that. I was there and I wasn't. I'm forgetting a lot of things and I have no control over the deadlines I set myself, am I the same as before? Something is happening to me and I don't know what it is.

Yesterday I sat under a cherry blossom and listened to its music. It told me about the impermanence of all things, about how everything around me changes constantly and how, at the same time, everything always remains the same. I am everything and nothing at the same time. The wind hits its flowers and they detach themselves from its branches. The wind hits my hair and I remain still, I am everything and nothing. I have the feeling that I have everything I need. Here, under this tree that welcomes me, I know and feel my being.

There is something in me that is empty, completely empty. However, that void carries within itself the whole. The thread that resuscitates me and keeps me going through life. Most of the time, I don't realize its existence, but when I just let myself exist, I feel the emptiness in me. When I do not do any force, when I think of you that exist but are far from me, when I smile, when I run in the morning, the moment I wake up. If only I could feel the inexistence more often.

I got a gift yesterday. Your name. I don't really know if it's you, I don't know what to do with the knowledge your name brings me, I don't know anything. I just know that I don't know. The words light the way, the strange thing is I don't know where I'm going. Every word is just to find you.

Je ne sais pas où vous êtes, je ne connais pas votre nom, je ne sais rien de vous, mais je sais comment vous trouver. Tu m'as dit et montré. Vous êtes dans mes rêves.Je me demande toujours pourquoi. Pourquoi vous êtes-vous retrouvé là-bas ? Je n'ai pas de réponses. Chaque fois que j'essaie de vous trouver, je suis confronté à des obstacles insurmontables. Et je pense qu'un jour. Au milieu d'une réalité brutale, il y a vous. Au milieu de la douleur, ta main dans la mienne. Et un jour.

Hier, je suis allé au parc et j'ai vu une Sakura en fleur. Le vent a porté ses fleurs au loin. Je me suis assis sous ses branches et pendant une seconde j'ai réalisé l'heure. Je passe mes journées à jouer avec le temps, mais en moi, je sais que mes jours sont comptés. Je suis ici pour une courte pause, je me demande quoi en faire ? Que faire avec ? Je cherche quelqu'un que je ne connais pas. J'écris des lignes imparfaites. Je me tais. Peut-être qu'un jour, tout ce que je fais et tout ce que je ne fais pas, peut-être que mon propre moi me conduira à mon destin.

Parfois, malgré tous nos efforts, nous rencontrons dans la vie des obstacles apparemment insurmontables. En un clin d'œil, une montagne se matérialise devant nous. Nous prions, nous demandons une intervention divine et magique. Rien. Nos efforts, pour herculéens, sont vains. Nous sommes alors pétrifiés, tout comme la montagne sur notre chemin. Il n'y a rien que nous puissions faire. Y en a-t-il ? J'ai découvert, au hasard, qu'il y a quelque chose qui fait que la montagne disparaît lentement. Des pas courts et constants au milieu du silence de l'âme. Ce matin, je pensais aux Everests que j'ai rencontrés dans ma vie. L'homme dans la voix qui ne sait pas qui il est, je ne sais même pas s'il est vivant ou mort ; mon mari qui ne peut pas trouver un nouveau travail pour que nous puissions déménager, les milliers de tests que je dois faire partout où je veux aller pour transférer mon diplôme de médecine... La seule chose qui semble avoir un effet, ce son...

Elle était seule, si seule qu'elle pensait avoir été engloutie par un trou noir. Il y a eu des jours où elle avait la nette impression de ne pas être réelle, ce n'était que la chimère d'un écrivain oublié depuis longtemps. Mais aujourd'hui, c'était mercredi et le soleil brillait. Aujourd'hui, c'était mercredi et elle se sentait comme quelqu'un. Aujourd'hui, c'était mercredi et elle pensait à l'homme dans la voix. Le courant de la rivière a emporté les pires sentiments. Pourtant, elle était ce qu'elle était. Elle l'aurait toujours été. Mélange de réalité et d'invention, étrange, trop calme, se cachant au milieu de visages informe. Les jours passaient et elle était toujours la même, une parmi tant d'autres. Juste une autre personne qui a pensé à quelqu'un d'autre. Pour toujours.

Sometimes in the middle of nowhere there is something beautiful.  Like the river this morning.  It took me a few seconds to get lost in it and find myself.  I've been lost for a long time.  Once upon a time, someone was trying to find herself.  And closer every day.  And day after day.  And someone in the middle of the road.  I started this blog / diary a little over a week ago.  Nobody knows that I write here, all these lines are written in the dark, hidden.  They are mine, intrinsically mine and, therefore, they are the most valuable thing I have.  And they are yours.  All lines.  They belong to those who find them.  One day at a time. A little more.  Always a little more.  Until the end of the path.

  Time works differently in this part of the world, as if the Earth spins faster here in Ireland.  My perception has been altered and my life is suspended.  I walk on deserted streets, I look for familiar faces, I write meaningless words, I leave coherence aside.  Where are you?  What happens in your life?  Are you safe?  All of these words are just for you, in one way or another, with or without time.  According to the philosophy of time, eternalism- all existence in time is equally real. This means that you are as real as I am and maybe, because I discovered you in the time of your existence, maybe we are sharing our time. Maybe. I have doubts.  There is a puzzle that suggests that physical information, and perhaps time is included in it, may disappear into a black hole.  I keep thinking, if I consider myself invented, if time is an illusion, if nothing exists, then maybe, I'm already in a black hole, maybe my whol...

I was, for some people, a ghost. I went through their lives and then, I disappeared without a trace. They'll never know if I really existed or if I was just a mirage, a trick of their imagination. I've had this tendency to disappear since I was a little girl. I disappeared from their lives in one of those unpredictable floods that affect us from time to time, none of them ever knew my whereabouts. I'm sure I was nothing but a chimera to them, today I'm not even that. Sometimes I remember these people, always wrapped in mists built in my own daydreams. What's the use of going back in time when life unfolds fully in front of us at all times? I am a grain of sand, lost in a non-existent past and in a future that is beyond manufacturing. Passers-by of a made-up life. The memory of some of these people causes me a poignant pain and most of the time I can't even guess the reason. At the end of the day, I wonder who among us is real, is it me or is it them?

Deserted streets, cloudy days, remind me of Patrick Modiano's enigmatic characters.  Yesterday I was reading about Colette Laurent, Jansen,the Meyendorffs and, of course, Robert Capa. I read somewhere that Jansen is actually Robert Capa's alter ego, is he? Actually, it doesn't matter. Walking with Patrick is always a pleasure without equal, never in my life have I experienced such happiness, reading Patrick Modiano is making peace with yourself. And today, again the day is grey, few cars pass in the street, I can see them from the window. People incubate at home, I incubate in me. A whole weekend reading Patrick and on Monday I'll be a bit more myself.  Suspended Sentences, So you don't get lost in the neighborhood and Villa Triste. Perfect days.

A long time ago, I heard someone talking about the Lorenz butterfly effect and that’s was it... I started thinking about the blue butterflies flapping their wings, causing hurricanes. Why is that this topic gives me so much pleasure? Maybe it’s the way its correlates with my own life. Or maybe it’s because of the way the unknown talked about it. Maybe this. Maybe that. It’s romantic and beautiful to think that we are all connected. All in one. I guess I wouldn’t be so in love with this theory if it wasn’t for my own search for oneness.  The theater curtain opens. The auditorium is full. The audience is ecstatic, watching thousands of blue butterflies flapping their wings. Each and every one of the spectators leave the theater thinking about the repercussions of so many flaps. The next day, they turn on their tv, they connect into the web, they read their newspaper and, in everywhere, they see the progression of the play. Hurricanes, desert’s rain, reu...

Sometimes we need solitude.  When making a decision.  When thinking about life.  When reading. I'm alone now.  My mind is a wild horse, I don't try to control it.  I try to remember the moment that I discovered that there was something in me connected to something external. Something that was me, but that was not.  I remember the moment perfectly.  I was in a Yoga class. Maybe stretching the body also makes us stretch the mind, who knows? Few times in my life have I felt so intensely being in myself.  There is something that lives and breathes outside of me, but that is still me.  I spend my life looking for it, even though I don't have enough words to describe it. I write these lines in search of a stranger who escapes me.  Mist of imagination.  Intricate feeling, rooted in the chest.  Maybe life is just that, an endless search that makes us wander, always changing places... I'm in Ireland now, wha...

Yesterday the day was grey and I cried. But it was sunny. It was sunny and grey. I walked around the river, thinking about you, stranger. You exist somewhere, but I still can't reach you. I feel your presence, but I don't know who you are. I imagine your hair and your hands, the way you move and how you wake up. You are beyond me, but in me. I write these words to try to get closer to you. As I write here, in the dark and hidden, I remember the words of my favorite author, Patrick Modiano: "For him, writing was also sending signals, like a lighthouse, or sending messages in Morse code to certain people whose destinies he ignored." Except, unlike him, I don't know who you are, dear stranger. Will I ever find you? I have no way of knowing, so I'm still here weaving stories, inventions, daydreams. One day. One more day. And who knows?

Honey,  It is obvious, and if there could be one word that meant more than obvious, that would be my choice, that this letter will not be sent. However, I like to write, I like to free myself, so I write to you. Do you even know who I am? Yes, I know, I'm a very common case of a student in love with the teacher.  Authority figures arouse passions. I wanted to understand why I like you, I know partly. I really think I write here to understand the mechanisms of my mind. Because, let's be honest, you're not handsome. And sometimes you were a little bit boring. So liking you has nothing to do with looks. Although, you're pretty smelly, and I love a perfume. Look, I'll be totally honest with you, I know why I fell in love with you. You're masterly in class, you talk with passion, and I can't say that about all the teachers. Participating in your classes is like reading a very good book, a book that you never want to leave. The classes are Geopolitical, but wh...

A man and a woman see each other for the first time. What does he think? It’s nothing. What does she think? My God look at these hands! There is something very intimate about braiding one’s fingers with someone.  They are fingers. But they are bodies.  I want your fingers in mine.  Because then, it will not just be fingers. It will be your mouth. And your eyes.  And your legs. And the stiffness of your chest.  Can I write this? Is it allowed? Yes, it is. Yes, it is. Yes, it is.  There is a God in you and a God in me and they found each other and from the God that exists in me to the God that exists in you Come! Don’t think, just come.  Everything else is irrelevant. Come. And I will wait for you.  Still a little. A little more.  Here I am writing these lines and the patient: when you think about the heart, you think, it’s a very dangerous thing. I respond to her: No doubt! Two...