immobilization by the pain of having grown.

I cloistered in my narrow, anguished little world, not knowing how to leave to breathe in the beauty of what’s outside me.

Angela inherited from me the desire to write and to paint. And if she inherited that part of me, it’s because I can’t imagine a life without the art of writing or painting or making music.

When I’m distracted, I fall into shadow and into the hollow and into the sweet and into the smooth nothing-of-me. I refresh myself. And I believe. I believe in magic, then.

I am looking for somebody whose life I can save. The only one who allows me to do that is Angela. And as I save her life, I save my own.

What an effort I make to be myself.

Besides I too might be the character of myself.

The cactus is full of rage with fingers all twisted and it’s impossible to caress it: it hates you with each piercing spine because it also feels the pain of the spine that pierced its own thick flesh first.

I had a vivid and inexplicable dream: I dreamed I was playing with my reflection. But my reflection wasn’t in a mirror, but reflected somebody else who wasn’t me.