Ao meu primeiro (e único?) leitor, que anda desinspirado:
A Writer Writes
A writer writes.
About what?
About what he wants to be and what he was. Never what he is. That is too close.
A writer writes about other people. He likes to dissect their lives.
A Writer Writes
A writer writes.
About what?
About what he wants to be and what he was. Never what he is. That is too close.
A writer writes about other people. He likes to dissect their lives.
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A writer writes.
About what?
His past and his future. Never the present. But he always ends in and with the present.
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About what?
His past and his future. Never the present. But he always ends in and with the present.
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A writer writes.
Compulsively. His thoughts, his feelings, his dreams. Letters. He plans his day. The shopping list. But everything he writes must be different. Unique.
Compulsively. His thoughts, his feelings, his dreams. Letters. He plans his day. The shopping list. But everything he writes must be different. Unique.
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A writer writes.
About what?
He tries to write. He wants to write. He’d rather write than talk, sometimes.
He sees the world with a writer’s eyes. Letters, instead of colours. White paper sheets, instead of landscapes.
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About what?
He tries to write. He wants to write. He’d rather write than talk, sometimes.
He sees the world with a writer’s eyes. Letters, instead of colours. White paper sheets, instead of landscapes.
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A writer writes.
With a pen or a pencil. With his finger, if he must. In the air. He builds castles of words and then rubbs them off or throws them away with a blow of tears and rage.
With a pen or a pencil. With his finger, if he must. In the air. He builds castles of words and then rubbs them off or throws them away with a blow of tears and rage.
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A writer writes.
Most of the times he doesn’t write at all. At least not what he feels he should be writing.
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Most of the times he doesn’t write at all. At least not what he feels he should be writing.
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A writer writes.
Trivialities. Deep thoughts. He must write. If he doesn’t he suffocates. He needs words like the air to breath. Yet he still suffocates. It is not enough. Not unless others understand it. And usually they don’t.
Trivialities. Deep thoughts. He must write. If he doesn’t he suffocates. He needs words like the air to breath. Yet he still suffocates. It is not enough. Not unless others understand it. And usually they don’t.
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A writer writes.
He tries to bring his thoughts out and write them down in a piece of paper. He tries to smash his soul in a white piece of paper. Yet, instead of his portrait, he looks at pieces of blood, bone and flesh splattered across his eyes like the innards of a horrible monster.
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He tries to bring his thoughts out and write them down in a piece of paper. He tries to smash his soul in a white piece of paper. Yet, instead of his portrait, he looks at pieces of blood, bone and flesh splattered across his eyes like the innards of a horrible monster.
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A writer writes.
He’s never happy. Never satisfied. Nothing is enough. No sentence is finished. No two words are perfectly matched.
He’s never happy. Never satisfied. Nothing is enough. No sentence is finished. No two words are perfectly matched.
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A writer writes.
In his mind he produces wonders. Master-pieces. But the slightest contact with the cold air is enough to destroy them, raped of their inner beauty.
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In his mind he produces wonders. Master-pieces. But the slightest contact with the cold air is enough to destroy them, raped of their inner beauty.
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A writer writes.
He wants to write. He needs to write. About everything. Everyone. Every detail. Yet he’s stopped by his own anguish. He can’t. He musn’t. Not until he’s sure that what will come out is perfect. And he’s never sure. Never!
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He wants to write. He needs to write. About everything. Everyone. Every detail. Yet he’s stopped by his own anguish. He can’t. He musn’t. Not until he’s sure that what will come out is perfect. And he’s never sure. Never!
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Obrigada por me leres :)
2 comentários:
"Nenhum artista tolera o real"
I think that's the answer why he writes. Don't you think so?
Sim, já te tinha dito que essa frase foi escrita para mim ... sou tal e qual isso - o real sem os meus pózinhos de perlimpimpim, como costumo dizer, é uma seca :) em geral...há momentos reais muito intensos, que não precisam de perlimpimim :)
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