Drawing the thread of his memories, finding himself through words

All around her, in her, writing projects. And synchronous cities that invite him, unequivocally, to plunge back into the past. A past from which only an analytical understanding remains. Digging the flesh of her memories with words.

That morning, as soon as you wake up the envy is present. Almost an emergency. She makes a cup of coffee in the kitchen, prepares two spreads, and takes her plate to the living room. As she sits at her computer, she feels a little uneasy in her stomach. It opens a page and starts with the title: Transformation. His idea: to go back to the facts, to clarify the steps to find the concrete thread of his life.

The first few lines are not easy to formulate. While writing the introduction, she notices that the real is encapsulated in a solid and padlocked analysis. The distance with events and his emotions seems almost impassable to him. Rare concrete memories come back. Nothing to feed a book or a script.

She resumed her writing:"I would say that my karma is heavily loaded. And that it is time for me to relieve myself of it by giving a simple account of the facts, enamelled with what my thoughts and emotions were then. No more, no less. This book has no other objective than to purge the facts in order to free me from what has weighed on me. My approach can be judged as self-centered as it is illusory. Doesn't matter to me. There are so many things - hard blows, lowliness, lies, slander - that I have not said so far, out of respect for the rules, in the hope that I will not become a wicked witch. Today is over."

Raising the head of his screen, his gaze crosses the window from the 5th floor, and embraces the urban horizon. The sky is sublime with its pinkish blue morning shades. Suddenly she visualizes her brain. His imagination zooms in on a hidden retreat: that's where they are, those damn memories. She gets back to work and lists the main stages: meeting, arguments, mystical awakening, discovery of her pregnancy, birth... It will be necessary to be patient. But she feels that one word after another her memory gives way and begins to tell a few stories.

One word at a time, you're gonna have to be patient and tame your fear.
Some words carry with them bits of emotion. She wants to let it flow, not block it. A balancing exercise: feel without faltering, vibrate without breaking up. Breathing. And the more she welcomes them, the more words and emotions hatch. A spurt at the same time as a dive in cloudy water. The stories are written one after the other, in their broad lines.
It's 11:00. She pauses while her phone starts ringing. Not answering, not getting out of this state, not right now. She stretches her arms towards the sky, gently turning her neck to release some tension. A door has opened, and its expression is illuminated. Her eyes look gently at the surrounding roofs.

It's time to reread. These events, these words... as if they weren't his own. The distance is still there, but of a different nature. The emotion and detail of the events arose. These lines speak of someone else. Rereading the passage where he grabs her at the throat, she is shaken by the violence of the scene and the silence that follows. The contrast between howling and the impossibility of putting words into it is atrocious. She has compassion for her, for him... and that little boy who sees everything. Silent.