RE-READING
Virginia Wolf hours. Writing with wooden stello. Dripped ink. Stained index. Rough paper scratching her pinky. Intimate sound and connection established. Between paper, thoughts, ink, and self. Finger, stylo and soul. Intense feelings. Vivid emotions. Deep connection. Never attained before except through this fatal combination. Resembling the death moments when sight is iron. Words and expression as vast and dense as a sea of black and blue ink. Mingled together. Evenly that you can trace neither the black nor the blue. Never stopped long enough to wonder about these trivials. Yet, indulged in the ink. Allowing yourself to be stained with the colour that you no more see but just taste its unique pigment fine mingling. The colour of your own reality. Blue. Black. Who cares. Red if I may say, like Pamuk's. But when in the making, it retrograde like Mars. Giving space to the new arrivals. Mercury and Saturn. Intermingling. Thoughts and ideas. With hard work and solid, untwisted intent...