Words really do not stop ...
I can justify my recent lack of creativity in myriad ways, but the truth is that my muse and I decided to dedicate ourselves to write on paper, yes, as I met the letters. I went back to experience that pleasure becoming less common to slip a tip on a piece of paper and remembered how pleasant it is to write only to a reader and also could repeat over and over again that even in this blog, just write to me " but that would be another lie, all public blog readers and the author seeks to enjoy them. Wandering about I can confess that I enjoy every criticism, reaching the email and those that are published as "comment". There is no enjoyment, are pleasing to the author or not be enjoyed because they indicate that one of the objectives of the publication is true: words are read.
Returning to the pleasure of writing as such, the last 20 days have filled more than 150 sheets of paper and enjoyed every one of them, enjoying every stroke on paper and listening to the rustling of the leaf to be checked. Each letter written during the past 20 days has been extracted from the depths of the thoughts of the author, has been accompanied by countless feelings and sensations, headaches and sighs ... and I published many letters in this environment for so long that finally passed it was obvious that would happen: no more words. Gone are the words that needed to be read by someone other than the author, my words quenched their thirst to be read and the author needed to let them rest outside her eye and she needed rest.
Some words began to hurt and wants to talk it over. The words are gone painfully slow, like when you break a piece of paper and creaks and bends to resist being destroyed ... muse and found me in the silence of my room in my space. The letters began to flow and those words that hurt demanded to be reflected on paper. In the trance of the storm surge itself left me the paper and pens, inks and pencils on my desk was insufficient.
Time passed, and the quiet returned and gradually stopped hurting words ... I must confess that even if they were painful at all times pleasant, was like taking a thorn deeply nailed slowly. I reconciled with the publication and here I am, wandering about. Justifying the absence with the firm intention of leaving a testimony of what happened and is to be were done with words, is that saturated letters to the author and the letters themselves do not help much.
A letter should be a word to make sense of something and my world has always been an imperative to write, lately even I felt empathy with each letter. The letters take shape with strong lines caused an emotion as strong, weak points with strokes caused an emotion with little encouragement to be expressed but equally valuable. Learned each letter, every word I knew something and rediscovering the letters rediscovered the simple pleasure of writing on paper ... reconnect with words I met again and reconciled with the letters did me.
needed no more.
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