it's so quiet here
It's so quiet here.
The silence is not charged, but remains silent, fluid, like air.
She is as silent as my finger. I can sit long time to come and watch my fingers. Right now they look pale. It corresponds to my inner constitution.
My thinking is nothing wrong per se. Sometimes I move my pen, turn it around and put it down again. My hands seem to me in the moments as an independent being, whose separation with my body I just do not have wahrgeommen. But I know that it is not true.
The time in which I have not perceived the knowledge of myself and my physicality, is been quite a while. It is
so quiet here.
The quiet rustle of the curtains rustling in my ears and reminds me of the feeling when I touched with my hands, another body.
between the two - the crackle and touching - it is no big difference: There are greetings from past and future.
The house in which I sit, the city where I live, the air I breathe, the movements that I do - all this is now, but at the same time only a state, an over sliding. Really, but insignificant.
Only the future will again be significant.
It's so quiet here.
---
is sometimes nothing more. Sometimes I sit here woven into a web of sadness and Desire, and have the feeling of infinite stillness, then I can not even imagine ever again get out of the state style. Can not tear me mr.
It's so quiet here.
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