I have always lived in fear of not being able to tell anything anymore.
I have never been much of a talkative person, being interested neither in frivolities nor in seriousness. All my relationships are being gnawed by this feeling: I keep saying and listening less and less. The demon of boredom is growing and widening its presence within my heart.
Even though I have always lived in fear of not being able to say anything, I have never stopped longing for creating and writing. I need to tell things but I can’t seem to be able to find what. I could be talking to you about love, sex, violence, passion, history… there is so much out there. And so many can write brilliantly about all that. What then?
Nothing but a sickening drying up. Vacuum. And the feeling of not having the talent to tell the stories I would love to. It is as if my personal foe was preventing me from creating anything interesting, from building up my characters, from imagining their emotions, their depth, their lives.
Everything is not to be kept silent and I can luckily still feel a few sparkles warning corners in my soul.
I would live to write, to create and amend.
For the few sparkles I can still manage to feel.