As I was at school, there were a little time to talk – I had the task to learn and there were no need to think about what am I doing. The situation changed totally at a moment I became the disabled – I became free from all my duties…the only question bothers me at a moment – what for am I writing (painting…thinking -breathing)?
I put on my best suit for to take the dustbin out. I walked out and so the old women who were chattering on a bench in the backyard of my house got one more picture to discuss. I moved proudly – my actions decorated my world and thus my life wasn’t meaningless, but the presentation of my best suit.
Wow, the mysteries appear when the the diary reports mix with the literature, yet the essence remains the same, isn’t it? Or need I to write the haiku for my words could become worthy to think?