Me and the Giant

the question of expectations

I don't speak, I don't write, I don't tell. Don't want to miss me.

I live things alone with a slight unconsciousness, including defeats, crisis, money, affection.

I meet today a giant in unusual ways, going out in the open as I am, neither strong nor weak, without art nor part, I entrust myself to the current of things that are not mine (it is no longer my writing, do not verify the aggressiveness, do not expose me in the weak things that though I can defend, wait, roll and stay firm, let the desire take hold of me and cut me in thin strips,

I have no anxiety but fear, clean, clear, defined in the contours that are those concerning acceptance, being adequate to expectations, collimate with the desire of others or the Giant.

I go and live, and I try to feel what I feel, not what I want, not what the Giant wants, but what I feel, in that sphere within me that reluctant round and other does not do if not roll creating space, an emotion, they call it, an emotion that living is afraid because you risk to die.

I go to dive into the arms of a giant without saying anything to anyone but full of expectations, with few pretensions (as I had to tell him) but many expectations, because these are the ones that make the soul live, make it light fly, make the tears rise in the eyes without making them descend, and make them smile, the high expectations are the true thrust towards the future. I'm going.

Happy and fearful.