Once my hand met a hand that was just gliding into my purse: it slid against my palm, felt like a soft falling leaf, moving velvety, unhurried to its target. Still advancing for a split second. And then the thud, my grip.
I silently let go. His eyes clutched to mine for a fleeting moment: the famished face of a young gipsy boy, hardly in his teens. And that age-old sadness. His slim, shrinking frame. His power to become invisible in the crowded bus. Bucharest, late '80s. He slipped out at the following stop, among people hanging and dangling at the doors.
The touch of his hand stayed. And now, ages after, I ask and wonder: isn't writing itself (our second nature) merely theft as well - like all things we believe are ours in what they call the real world? Where we keep stealing glances and stealing sights not made for our eyes. The tempo rubato of amours and amourettes sometimes. And heavier things so many.
The writing hand moving unhurried to its target. Containing its passion. Feigning to look the other way, feigning to be asleep, to be dead, not to be at all. A leaf blown in the wind, unnoticeable among flocks of wandering leaves.
And as quick as lightning to grab, when no one can see.
To hunt in forbidden land. In ourselves as well as in heaven.
And put words in place