midwifery

by walterdoege

I feel writing sometimes as a midwifery…the birth of a handwriting, a manuscript, a text…is sometimes a hard work…what occurs is that as a writer I permit the fingers type the words…I am a tiny matter as a writer…in between me and the writing the birth labour…I try to help the words come to a handwriting, as if I am not the father nor the mother of the text…as a writer I am an author…there’s exist almost no ventriloquism there, but some does exist and comes from the readings, the listenings of people’s talk, the listening of music, the listening of the winds sounds, of the birds music…yesterday I listened some songs…and the lyrics stayed till now while I am writing this sweaty post…some old songs, some new songs…some songs last forever…one song sounds in this handwriting…love is not a game…love is not a losing game…love is not a losing hand…oh! dear Amy, I miss you…the melody and harmony of the your voice, Amy…the lyrics of an impressive and strange beauty and pain…’love is a losing game…for you I was a flame…I could not stand….love is a losing hand’…I know this lyrics in deep…somehow all the pain in love path may be bigger than the imagination…love is more than a word…love is a strong free sentimental movement…for this reason I mentioned love as a sweet hurricane…as in my experience, love breaks concepts, convictions, fictions, timing…love is a sweet one however…the pain in love does not come from love itself…love is not a chance nor a choice, but some responsibility to a meeting…I feel me close to this pain, but this pain does noot come from love…perhaps come from concepts and convictions and circumstances…love itself seems a flower, a blue rose…une petit rose bleue…sometimes it seems as if love does not exist, only pain and lost..but the main expression of love is joy and peace…I understand this hard path, I am in this hard path of love…useless love…love itself is not a tool…love itself is an experience of share love…love is not my propety, nor your’s and of no one’s else…my loved ones are not my peoperty…my life is not my property…love is our common air…sometimes breathing seems not enough, but this is an illusion…love is opened always…I must stand me opened to love…but sometimes the path of love resembles a losing game…I feel losts…I miss…I feel deep woes…life so short, art so long…an regarding love, no lessons, no classes, no learning…only sense love…lover, keep living, lovers keep surviving, lovers keep loving…love is a hard inner and out work… togetherness, trust, confidence…in despite of pain and in despite of all…when all the things broke, when all walls fall…love remains…closer to choice than to chance