Realpolitik

I'm staring at my keyboard for a while now. I'm looking at my fingers asking them from my inside to start moving, to start pushing those little black keys with little white letters on them. But not much seems to happen, except this description, except these few words telling you a state of mind, showing you a fine sample of authentic reality. So I suppose these words are not the product of flashes of inspiration, nights full of dreams or extraordinary occurences to be telling and writing about. Just saying how it is could do the trick... But then, are we really interested in how it really is in reality? I don't know.

Too much reality could become boring after a while. Because reality tends to be repetitive, to tell history in a cyclic manner, rather than making it evolve. All Big Brother shows started off with huge successes, but after a few years of broadcasting nobody seems to be interested any more. Too much reality? Of course if we would all be action heroes our reality to tell about would probably be much more interesting than the average one, but eventually -once again- nobody would give a damn any more: at the end the girl will always get rescued.

My fingers are still moving. Still pushing those keys. Still telling a bit of reality. But not for long any more. Your interest could already be fading. There are other things to do. There is another reality waiting out there. For me and maybe also for you. And once again, also that one probably is not worth to be telling about.

Waiting

We all have to endure it at times. Some of us rather seldom, others all the time. Waiting is something making part of what, who, where and how we are. Waiting can be hell. Hell for the fear of what is to come. Just as waiting can be an extraordinary pleasure. Pleasure for what is not yet and maybe, just maybe, never will be.

Sometimes we wait because we know we have to wait. If you have a red light or stop sign ahead, you'd better stop. If you just put the De Cecco pasta in some boiling water, you'd better leave it in there as long as it needs to stay in there. But then, don't leave it too long. You'd might end up with something you really don't want to eat. So wait. Take time to wait. But be aware. Know when the waiting is over. Know when to get up, open your eyes, zip up your jacket and go.

But now I wait. I choose to wait. No signs of my waiting being over yet. Maybe because it's time to wait. Because I don't have to go yet. Because I don't want to go. I grab for a cd on the cupboard. It says 'Booka Shade'. I hesitate, but eventually I realize it's just perfect. Play!

Post n° 50

Fifty times now.
Fifty stories.
Fifty tales of life.
Fifty times everything or just nothing.
Fifty dreams. Fifty hopes. Fifty wishes to come true.
Fifty candles.
Fifty kisses.

Fifty times now.
And fifty times more.