Saturday, January 17, 2015
The day I began feeling a writer was the same day I realised I would never be a good one. The words are always willing to dance around my fingers, you can feel them tingling up and down, in and out. There is no secret between them and I. Close distance relationship. A burden and a fire under me to keep me burning when I am less proud of anything I might be able to come up with.
But to master the art you need to make it visible to the reader, anybody may jump on your page and spoil your little filthy game you are into. Once happy with how the sounds may be in the mouth of the woman who will never read what you are dedicating to her, you will fall on your hopes realising they make no sense in the mouth of the critics.
There's a black howl squeezing under your temples, over your vision of things, clouding it all, blackening every ray of hope that could attempt to make you feel slightly better about yourself.
The moment you write it, you know you are doomed to failure. And yet, what a sweet pleasure it is. I could honestly say it is the only moment that will never abandon me for another man. My faithful weakened brain, my short fat fingers clumsily crushing the keyboard expecting to extract the last resorts of insanity out of my decaying soul...the glass of alcohol not far, the music from the damned ones...the fools, the lost ones, the forgotten allies in the dark.
Incense, death and hope traded by a brief moment of intense literary pleasure. Delighted by the ghost of a ghost created by the best faith of others.
You write, write and write. Mistakes blended with syntax errors...and yet how gorgeous it looks, how tasty it feels when you say it loud.
Fuck style, screw you and your rules.
Just fucking keep on typing, go on dreaming until your flesh falls from your bones.
Until you are word yourself.