Like Drawing

The ink is the pin that sews characters that do not understand, that fight, shaking, panting, trying to catch handfuls of pure air. White, white spaces floating, kissing, caressing, loving, hugging, always at the edge. The edge of the line? The edge of the fingers? The edge of the edges? And always naked, fragile and strong at the same time, with the pain of knowing to be unsheltered by the fabric that we all sew together. And always naked, rigid, relaxed, serious, smiling, dancing without knowing what they are dancing. There they are, each one of them, reflected in the mirrors without recognizing themselves. And what about us? Sitting aside, not knowing how…