Sometimes I feel like what my texts, poems, …. things whatever they are, have missing is the story behind them. Funny thing to say about a supposed story. But they are not a story, are they?
They are just the summery, the solution, a fragment of a story,
We, the readers add the story and essence to poems and maybe that is the beauty with them.
We don´t know why the author thought of this constellation of words.
We only know our story to it, which we see in the shadows the words cast.
To each of us a different one, showing our words in a borrowed light.
