I no longer think of madness. New words need to be found. Language has to take over. Last night in the bar I danced wildly with a handsome slender boy. His naked torso and his hands clutching mine.
I thought, I had forgotten – my writing is my contact with the physical world. I need it, I breathe words, sometimes I say them.
Violet hands, hairy thighs
I have to forget what I have read and yet I need it to feed my brain. Everybody is unique and every writing must be. I don’t care about similitude. I need to see the words emerge from my pen. I love them to be poured onto paper from inside my typewriter. They are more than physical. They are cosmic, talking, eating, loving, leading a life of their own. And I am afraid to mix living persons into my writing. The fear to disfigure them. To love them less than I love my words.
Or maybe I am afraid of losing my words for something more concrete. But is there?
I have to live more, to find a way of giving birth to words, to secure their future existence
Artists have a love affair with the invisibleChristina Strigas