At this point none of them know how to live without writing, even though physically we are not writing. Inside the machine is still running, the wheel turns and does not stop at inopportune interruptions and urgent problems. No matter what the hand does not reflect later, I hear my internal dialogue and I know that sounds completely literary.
was reading a book and on the third paragraph, one of his lines made me remember something, and my brain has automatically stopped giving importance to what captured my eyes. Turn off the light, close the book and I get carried away by the torrent of thoughts. Tomorrow morning, but the machinery is already in motion and inertia away with any responsible decision. It's great to have this creative storm that breaks all barriers and get to beat my time. It's great to see you still have the ability to surprise yourself.
The idea grows, grows, baste with others expands, stretches, deforms and defined. When I realize I could write about it is too late. And that for these cases I have always prepared a notebook on the bedside table as the one who keeps a gun under the pillow. But this time I will continue collecting dust.
I do not want to start again from the beginning, well, I think faster than I write, much more. Take now the pen would stop all flow would be a coitus interruptus fledged. I want to follow mine.
Sorry. Readers, readers, this idea is mine, all mine. I will not write about it. Does not belong to you. Tomorrow when I wake up I will not be able to remember anything, and if I am, will have lost all sense, all its magic.
And throw another one into the dustbin of the ephemeral genius. Sorry if you intended to know simply because you read me leave much in the pipeline. Not what you would put so easy when I'm not even able to wear it so easy for me.
Because now that you bring up is true that even when I write I always tell the truth, not fair: you know Me plasmo every word, but I do not know you but leave small footprints scattered throughout the text when I read. It would be unfair, and therefore, to redress the balance, make you wonder.
When am crystal clear and when everything is not just a metaphor silent? How much is reality and what is the story of a dream? What I have thought and what I saw, I read, I listened, I have been told? When that character is me and when it is more than a variation of someone with whom I've crossed a few hours before? In a way
that gives me some control. Now I'm the one who knows what you think you and I know how much of that is true and what is false. And I'm tracing your footsteps in every text and wondering if I should include you or not in the group of people who have not understood anything I wanted to say the last thing I wrote. Fingers crossed, but I can not doubt.
So we two shipwrecked in the sea of \u200b\u200bdoubt, two eternal strangers, thinking ourselves known through a glass, darkly, glimpsing shadows of whole people extrapolated. But I prefer it that way, if you're not going to leave you to feel your soul, I did not serve. Maybe I risk our relationship is more sterile than a relationship message-based Facebook, more indeterminate than a missed call, as empty as a conversation about the weather in the elevator of an office building. But I prefer it that way, this is a quid pro quo , if you insist on forcing your invisibility mixed messages I can only give you back, if you're not going to leave you to feel your soul do not expect to know mine.
And no, it is fair for neither, but I, as a writer, I'm still at a disadvantage, I still feel I'm the one that brings the two, and so, before you close the page before you turn off the computer and get up from the chair I will make you doubt again, because - I know you've thought - Of all people reading this, you may be just you I will read these words?
Image ~ TigerLill 
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