Hello, I introduce myself, I'm a writer. One of many. "Of", and not "among" because I don't like to stay between my other colleagues. Most of us wouldn't be able to recognize a peer, and if that's so there must be a reason. The best thing that could happen to us is not to realize to do the same for a living but... no, I'm rambling, and this is one of the merits and the flaws of my job, which is also my being. The first not written law we must observe states that we cannot speak, nor write, nor let understand anything about our essences, or our way to do the job, almost the same thing if you followed me.
I will even explain how I write what I write, and I'll give you an example, maybe not invented.
Basically I wander around the streets, and watch. I look at someone, and imagine, but I stay far enough so that i can't hear anything, and if I do I forget it before I can possibly write it down.
I'm barred from writing dialogues, put some words inside the mouth of others; it wouldn't be right and as a matter of fact I'm a convinced hygienist. My mother would strongly disagree. In fact I think she wouldn't be happy to know that I can affirm falsity, and make false statements, as much as I like, if this means a bigger emotional response. If only she knew it.
However, the important thing is to believe in it, or at least make someone believe. And with words is so easy, not like with pictures or the sounds, they need diverse cognitive and sensory alterations, to slip on the technical issues for a moment. Like those times you risk to fall down because of a false declaration, white on the surface but terrible inside. I'm rambling again, and in an incomprehensible way, I'm sorry. Let's go back to the example, and don't leave it behind.
Friday someone was in love. At the first stage, the one always full of pleasure, that is often forgotten because when remembered it hurts so much, though there's nothing to be ashamed of, declared or not.
It was a saturday night, almost morning, and nobody was running the risk to fall down, the rain or the snow would have arrived only two days later. I was sitting down at the stop, waiting for the bus. Contemporary public transports are one of my favourite places, among the others it happens to see and follow the events crossing each other. As if lives didn't cross on every possible square centimitre upon this Earth. The fact is that I like them, maybe it's the colour of the seats, upon where I was in the moment I noticed a character.
Not far away, restless and bent on a telephone he was pushing slowly the keys on a keyboard. Slowly, always holding it in his hand. There was no need to be a professional to know that he was going towards a goal hard to reach, but neverthless he was trying, being aware of making a mistake.
This was caused by the mental exercise according to which he strove to look to himself like everyone else would have done. Not a generic one, but diverse specific ones. Even like he was himself looking, and this was the most pathetic thing, even on a metalinguistic level. However, nobody was able to explain why he was wearing two shoes of the same model but with different colours. Neither was him, of course.
Neither was the cause why he lived on emotional tensions. Do you bear in mind when a human being feels something on both physical and mental levels, but no words nor actions spring out? He ate them, literally, both generated by him and by someone else. On a mental level, I mean. The longer they lasted the more pleasure he obtained.
So he was taken for an eternal undecided, for someone who can't shake it up, as if that thing on his mind wasn't what he was longing to, corresponding to something infinitely more material, instead, for other people. Sure it was better of the books diet in any case.
The best thing is that he was doing it unconsciously. For this reason sometimes he thought of his feelings being blocked, of him not able to feel anything. He actually felt something, but maybe just for one person, whom maybe didn't know or maybe was wishing to be that one. And many of the people he hanged around with were hoping it, but maybe one, or not even that, was the right one. And maybe that right person had someone by her side, or maybe wouldn't ever have known, the important thing was to hope, believe, be crazy about the possibility.
And the crazy, he, got off the bus, choosing in a weighted than timely way. And he nearly ran away, still holding his telephone. To tail someone is not easy when you're a newbie, and luckily it's been a while since I was of them. It's just that sometimes I think about what it would be like to live on the other side, between all those patterns and connections. I should write something about it, imagine what I would be and what I would do.
Something that makes me rambling even here with you, as always.
(continues in the next one, look at the menu)
I will even explain how I write what I write, and I'll give you an example, maybe not invented.
Basically I wander around the streets, and watch. I look at someone, and imagine, but I stay far enough so that i can't hear anything, and if I do I forget it before I can possibly write it down.
I'm barred from writing dialogues, put some words inside the mouth of others; it wouldn't be right and as a matter of fact I'm a convinced hygienist. My mother would strongly disagree. In fact I think she wouldn't be happy to know that I can affirm falsity, and make false statements, as much as I like, if this means a bigger emotional response. If only she knew it.
However, the important thing is to believe in it, or at least make someone believe. And with words is so easy, not like with pictures or the sounds, they need diverse cognitive and sensory alterations, to slip on the technical issues for a moment. Like those times you risk to fall down because of a false declaration, white on the surface but terrible inside. I'm rambling again, and in an incomprehensible way, I'm sorry. Let's go back to the example, and don't leave it behind.
Friday someone was in love. At the first stage, the one always full of pleasure, that is often forgotten because when remembered it hurts so much, though there's nothing to be ashamed of, declared or not.
It was a saturday night, almost morning, and nobody was running the risk to fall down, the rain or the snow would have arrived only two days later. I was sitting down at the stop, waiting for the bus. Contemporary public transports are one of my favourite places, among the others it happens to see and follow the events crossing each other. As if lives didn't cross on every possible square centimitre upon this Earth. The fact is that I like them, maybe it's the colour of the seats, upon where I was in the moment I noticed a character.
Not far away, restless and bent on a telephone he was pushing slowly the keys on a keyboard. Slowly, always holding it in his hand. There was no need to be a professional to know that he was going towards a goal hard to reach, but neverthless he was trying, being aware of making a mistake.
This was caused by the mental exercise according to which he strove to look to himself like everyone else would have done. Not a generic one, but diverse specific ones. Even like he was himself looking, and this was the most pathetic thing, even on a metalinguistic level. However, nobody was able to explain why he was wearing two shoes of the same model but with different colours. Neither was him, of course.
Neither was the cause why he lived on emotional tensions. Do you bear in mind when a human being feels something on both physical and mental levels, but no words nor actions spring out? He ate them, literally, both generated by him and by someone else. On a mental level, I mean. The longer they lasted the more pleasure he obtained.
So he was taken for an eternal undecided, for someone who can't shake it up, as if that thing on his mind wasn't what he was longing to, corresponding to something infinitely more material, instead, for other people. Sure it was better of the books diet in any case.
The best thing is that he was doing it unconsciously. For this reason sometimes he thought of his feelings being blocked, of him not able to feel anything. He actually felt something, but maybe just for one person, whom maybe didn't know or maybe was wishing to be that one. And many of the people he hanged around with were hoping it, but maybe one, or not even that, was the right one. And maybe that right person had someone by her side, or maybe wouldn't ever have known, the important thing was to hope, believe, be crazy about the possibility.
And the crazy, he, got off the bus, choosing in a weighted than timely way. And he nearly ran away, still holding his telephone. To tail someone is not easy when you're a newbie, and luckily it's been a while since I was of them. It's just that sometimes I think about what it would be like to live on the other side, between all those patterns and connections. I should write something about it, imagine what I would be and what I would do.
Something that makes me rambling even here with you, as always.
(continues in the next one, look at the menu)
can i click on style? yes, why not?
how can i scroll? put your mouse over the
inferior or the superior part of the text.
can i contact you? boh A T indiestar.it
how can i scroll? put your mouse over the
inferior or the superior part of the text.
can i contact you? boh A T indiestar.it
posso cliccare su stile? fai pure.
come si scrolla? passando sopra la parte più
inferiore o superiore del testo.
posso contattarti? boh chiocciola indiestar.it
come si scrolla? passando sopra la parte più
inferiore o superiore del testo.
posso contattarti? boh chiocciola indiestar.it