por Cristina Bresser
Postado em 13 de Janeiro de 2018 às 10:42
Inside my suitcase, your old sweater wraps a portrait with a faded sleeping image of a forgotten time. The thorn sweater snuggles the memories of ourselves, we who cannot remember who we were before we met.
The shredded wool yarns try to escape from the case in an attempt to run from the past, as it were ever possible. Images of a cold summer in Edinburgh, where the wind was as sharp as our voices, screaming, already so far away from each other.
A soft rotten blanket occupies the empty spaces, as the opportunities lost in time, when we could have warmed each other hands but we didn’t. Burning the path behind us, there is no way back. I must hit the hard dusty dirt road. Brave or not, I remove the soul mold. Breath, walk, breath, walk. Till next destiny,
Till death do us unite.
Consultoria em Carreira e Desenvolvimento Humano.