The In-Between is a journal by René Michel (tsinvari) — poet and wanderer. Here, you will find prose, poetry, and the territory where neither is quite enough. Written from Luxembourg, rooted in Bolivia, shaped by six countries and seven languages.
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“shhh here’s a secret: mediocrity is what everyone calls normality, and madness is to see beyond, shhh, keep it for yourself, she was never talking about ghosts or gods, she was talking about the details we are missing.”
The invisible doctors always say, ‘as soon as you realise you can ask, you meet lies; as soon as you realise you can walk, you find prison.'
“Stones, or seeds, throwing or sowing, bah all is the same, all is us making choices.”
Their hips tuned to the congas, their shoulders to the clave, his hands drew constellations over her head, and she became a meandering ribbon of light. “I could devour him,” she said trying to keep up with his sprightly movements. He never missed the main beats, but the beats in-between were where his sensuality lived, in the ritardando of his body, that seemed to innocently wait for her to rain…
A truth that is as true as any other lie, and as false as any other truth, for the space between poetry and real life is an empty chasm that needs to be bridged.
“We’re on our way!” The message blinked on his phone.
The table was there when he moved in.
As unjust as time is when creating memories and forgetfulness. Just like when she, a fair woman of the silicon-planet, discovers that the most enchanting way of saying “I love you” is, “I am afraid you’ll forget me”.
Everything was so fast, so confusing.
Pristine, blue and fresh, the lake drew itself across the horizon.
She’s older than me, and one of the events that shaped her life coincided with my birthday.
