Image by Darwin Bell via FlickrMy body is inscripted with so many words. My past, my present, my future, interwined, written in ethernal ink all over my skin, all over my being. I am so overwhelmed by the importance of the words in my life, I couldn't exist without them. So I feel compelled to reading them, randomly and in the right order, all over again. Like the Fate spinning the thread than sustains the mortals' life, I have to read my words in order to be alive.
Like a monk who prays incessantly I have to read and write my life's story. I verse, in prose, fragments, books, in the Latin alphabet, with Hebrew letters, in Braille, sentences with or without punctuation.
But while I am busy weaving the letters - black ravens picking at my heart- into finely crafted chains of words, why am I suddenly alone? Where did everybody go?
Everyone is born inscripted by God's hand, someone said. And with this thought, the burden is bearable, said the scribe...