Short texts, reflections, and fragments. What is said when one is not writing a book.
On what remains when everything collapses
There are ruins that ask for nothing. They do not wish to be restored, nor understood. They hold, that is all. And in that mute obstinacy, they say more than any book.
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What writing owes to fire
To write is to burn something. A certainty, a memory, a version of oneself one thought was final. Ink does not flow: it consumes.
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Roots, exile, and the memory of the living
A tree does not choose where it grows. It grows, that is all. And when the wind uproots it, it does not protest. It falls, and in its fall, it carries with it all the memory of the soil.
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On the words we keep to ourselves
There are letters one writes without ever sending them. Not out of cowardice, nor forgetfulness. Out of respect for the silence they contain.
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