How trivial of me, little fool, writing of great issues...
Drawing love, talking of death, thinking of life... castles of words have already been built. Great,
impenetrable forts with steel grounds, and concrete minds to hold them up.
And I’m here, smugly facing history, convinced the world owes me something. I build sandcastles.
Just a breath of wind and I’d be buried. They’d suffocate, these words I’ve written with the sweat of a
smooth forehead. It should be wrinkled, battered by the weight of knowledge. Instead, it’s soft and radiant.
Unworthy! Traitor!
And so many minds, just like mine, so many aspiring dreamers, define themselves writers. We’re a vast and
flimsy handful of forever wannabe, looking for solitary places, summer sunsets, light drizzles in remote
clearings. We are the phony angels that spend their lives building their wax wings just to reach the sun.
We’ve learned nothing from the great fall of that who preceded us.
Listen!
Listen to my words, I beg you! It’s important! You have to open up your heart so that I can touch it with
oxymorons never heard before. I can make it race! I am the chosen one!
I, and all the rest of us...
We fight for the dusty place on the library shelf. What glory in those dirty pages!
I hear the howling of the wind through these lines, and I keep telling myself it’s the sighs of my future
readers. Deaf to reality, I refuse to stop dreaming and I accumulate pages and pages and I repeat myself and I
talk too much, I feel too much, I think too much. Infinity beyond the hedge, fireworks behind squinted
eyelids, the hurricane unleashed by a butterfly. All has been said. There’s nothing new, nothing
revolutionary, not my stubbornness, not even my unattackable resilience.