In front of the door. To approach or remain in withdrawal? To dare the touch to push it. To hesitate not to skim it. What to find? Yes, that to find behind its rusted thickness? The desire for doing it. Y to think of bursting some. But to retain itself, to be afraid that so many things can appear behind. A step moreover towards it. It is too beautiful. Could its stone framing, its iron sculptures, the pleasure be bitter? In the beautiful one exists a share of ugly. I want it, I hate it. See behind. A step moreover. So near. It is still time to refuse, to return. To flee with the feeling of vacuum, cowardice, the tied tripe. Nobody will know it. It will be necessary to assume. Will remain this scar in the memory of my intimacy. To approach a tread to breathe the odor of wet grasses. They all keep the door drawn up. They were never trampled. To touch the door, to cherish it, feel it to breathe, shiver. Yes, to like, adore, dare. To turn the handle. To push. To open, enter, look at. To violate for a pinched glance? To give up, leave in peace the secrecies. To withdraw itself without to have scratched. To close without to have offended. To leave with the door the magic protect what is the life on other side ?
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J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
