Saturday @home

Red is the new black. From now on my typing shall be in red, it reminds me of my heart, of others' hearts, of passion, of loss, of blindness (when suddenly all goes red, and you forget all other colours).

I have been rereading Borges ( yes, he was blind too - but only physically) this morning, and then i just sat back and watched my last DVD fixation ("House MD").
From the Penguin Classics Borges' 'Book of Sand' i am reciting the following:

"I know that you miss something" (103)

"To be in the fruitless night / he who counts the syllables" (105)

"And underneath the myths and the masks, / her soul, always alone." (107)

and a whole poem first in his language, then in the universal English:

Es el amor, Tendre que ocultarme o que huir. (...)
Estar contigo o no esar contigo es le medida de mi tiempo. (...)
Es, ya lo se, el amor: la ansieded y el alivio de oir tu voz.
la espera y la memoria, el horror de vivir en lo sucesivo,
Es el amor con sus mitologias, con sus pequenas magias
inutiles.
Hay una esquina por la que no me atrevo a pasar.
Ya los ejercitos me cercan, las hordas.
(Esta habitacion es irreal; ella no la ha visto.) (112)

It is love. I wil have to hide or flee. (...)
Being with you or without you is how i measure my time. (...)
It is love, I know it; the anxiety and relief at hearing your voice,
the hope and the memory, the horror at living in succession.
It is love with its own mythology, its mirror and pointless magic.
There is a street corner I do not dare to pass.
Now the armies surround me, the rabble.
(This room is unreal. She has not seen it.) (113)

from the DVD session there is nothing to add here. Borges encapsulates my day's worth.