Sunday, May 6, 2012

Life in small squares

Do you know Instagram? This platform of micro-blogging in images, for users of Iphone. Yes, you certainly know, I will not expand hours on the subject. Say it's a Twitter in images. The principle is exactly the same: you post your photos, you follow the accounts that you like, you can report the images that you like particularly and leave comments to the author.

This is a long time that I am registered, but I I am taken to the game since shortly. First because several friends use it and I am driven by a "me too I want play" straight out of childhood. But also and especially because I like this principle: everyone is housed in the same fashion and must seek to produce something of joli/interesting/surprising with a common tool, the Iphone and a unique format, the photos resized to the square.

It is always very exciting to see thousands of uses that can be a same tool. How some take advantage of their weaknesses and how to circumvent the constraints of the medium to talk about their images.

I also note that the air of nothing, without probably whether voluntary, almost all accounts have their style, a truly personal touch. Short, after having issued serious misgivings, I started to use Instagram so that the site was under development and that few people were registered, this may explain this, it is the new small toy that effectively distracted me.

If you want to track my account - illustrations images are of course from the last posts on, it is the @cachemireetsoie account. And here are also some of my favorite accounts:

@ohfajar for his always superb graphic compositions (even if the author completely Cheats: his compositions are not the Iphone, it is certain)

@dinky for are keen sense of the art of living and beautiful compositions of his photos

@ nini_cb for enhancing overdose of daily mignonneries to my timeline

@freepeople because it is the mode as I love it, full of life, fun, subtlety and relaxation.

Finally, last but not least, you can also browse on the web site

Last appointment

I have no penalty. It was more than two months ago and no grief came. I count the days in the hope that happens, but not: I feel in my heart as if it nothing happened. It seems that I've retained me as this relief that occurs when something painful stops fight in our temples. Yes, it's true, the relief is always present. I did not know that could surprise waiting for her grief. And even hope. You know, I'd say goodbye properly. It seems that a modesty prevents me. Or something else, but what? You think that is loved enough, we both?

When I think about it, it may be true. It is is fleeced, you and I, our whole lives. There were too many people to love autour, it took no time really, for us.

Until the end, it compares to other small pieces of love, that's all. But remember as it was this glow of new complicity between us last year? We were all surprised one and the other. And happy. Of course, were in did not, but it was that we were happy. All this unexpected wealth, these horizons of things to say that it discovered suddenly, what a joy it was. It is well doubted that there would not be time to explore, but it was good. It was even better, in a way, you do not believe? But perhaps is it not sufficient for tears. We had what, one, two years of more… I do not know.

I wanted you to know, for my boat crossing, in a few months. You proud bristles, also a little envy. And still proud. I would have liked that you can tell your friends from the port that your little girl part see what it looks like, the heart of an ocean. With the air of their nodes Chair say, the row had borne fruit. Beaten with feet to the codend, y'a out of true. But I did not dare say you, last time, to the hospital. It caused you concern. In short, it was already too late. Sometimes, we rate little, that's how.

You know, I am counting the days for the first exit at sea. From Paris, I find myself to check the schedule for the opening of the doors, at the port, even if it is a little ridiculous. You have planted a frigging seeds in the hearts of your children, I will tell you. For that, you have not missed your shot. The next high tide takes place next month. If the weather is good this day there, I will be at sea on your boat, a bit with you, just for you. And it will go fishing with clams, it seems that there this year.

Ah, I just feel something. A small tingle at the bottom of the stomach. Something that is, who has the air to wait his time. You know what, this April 9, we may well go you and me. I am sure that there will be more things to say that it does.


I checked on the clock. It is four hours. I refuse to turn on the light, sleep, I know, will not come. Nocturnal confusion playground now occupies all the space, we can't nothing against him. It's funny as all is called into question, at that time. This is always the time where all switches. Pieces of dreams in which diving a few short seconds have the color hallucinations.

Four hours ten. That night, it's always you who come back. You that I both love more, love more. Much has been said of you, these days, that's perhaps why. You can let you go by hell so easily and that I would like to know holding, although it is probably not my role. If you knew as I think you, always. And as I know how much these thoughts are sterile. Thinking, it does advance much. Maybe it's only of love that never found its form, it will come a day…

Four and a half hours. One idea chasing the other, old fears of artist a little together resurfacing. And I thought have devastated a long time ago. The dragons defeated Thunder sometimes again from their ashes. This story which rotates in a circle, each path. This novel who does not know what he wants, and the author is not known where it is going. An idea that might be giving up, finally. This should stop totally love it, it is not there. Abandoned route of the heroes that it has not finished to grow, it's complicated. Worse than that, it's just immoral. And this too permanent working, it means what? It takes you where? You this is well advanced with one thousand projects on the arms that lead you where you are not sure to feel like going. It seems that you can see what is important.

Four hours forty. A Doliprane, a cigarette. Health care and be evil at a time. Strange behaviour. If he was day now, the sky would be blue, but it is not day. It must be to do with. It may well be a blow to cry. I am at the edge of nearby have envy, to be able to. But no, I know more too do this, cry, it exhausts me in advance. And then, in the dark, I have intuition that it might break something, starting with silence, only remains reassuring that strange night.

Four hours fifty two. Scrap of dream. It was London and the beach and a House like mine, but it wasn't quite it. I had fled something by taking a train. That therefore I flee? NON. I now nothing. This dream said that lies. Why dreams seem to all have something to tell me, tonight? Shut up then. I don't want to hear. And for your information: no, I now nothing. I am facing. I'm a great girl and I am not afraid. Indeed keep, this, I think in my trip, you cannot spoiling me this pleasure.

Five hours six. Bad idea. It was my horizon this beautiful trip and I am near it. Behind, it is the unknown: maybe there is nothing. I stand in thought to the bow of a boat and that gives me Vertigo. The boat? The sea? The piano? The friends? The small pieces of the heart? The books? Nothing works. Everything is a bad idea and turns inevitably to the nightmare. There may be a monster under the bed, finally. All the air as possible. But I prefer not to watch: if I noticed it, I would not have the courage to fight him. Not now. Signs, perhaps, that exhaustion is beginning to be felt.

Five hour twenty-five. Finally, the tears were not necessary to break the silence: a bird started to sing. That made stand up at this hour? It is black outside and there is this small bird, which sifflote. It's funny, it seems that he sings. As we also were times when one is sure to be heard by anyone. Yes, this is it, he sings. And there is this spontaneous melody, that produces itself, like that, without express. I am aware that I will sleep cradled the song of a bird. There is only animated films, normally, to do that. It is almost always when it is not the beautiful things found, it always comes back to the same. It's just to be patient.