life happened to me...
Pablo Neruda
It is strange, is it not? How life just happens to us, no matter how hard we grab and grasp and try to plan, we just turn a corner and oops, there is it, lying in wait to shake us up (and down). And then we find ways of getting by, ways that say, don't ruffle the feathers, bite you lip, button your thoughts, saying what you want and what you mean is not always the best way to manage your dreams. And then dreams, what are they but the borrowed bones of old stories that linger, buried at the back of insomnia, designed to taunt and haunt and confuse, and even begin in a language you don't even speak, en medio de la noche me progunto: and this is a Calvino-esque beginning of a story I have been thinking long about:
In the middle of the night I ask myself...
