A writer is born out of pain. And he seems to be constantly
looking for it, so that the words flow like a "rockless" river.
Rocks are little pieces of happiness with a bit of insanity
in a yellow day. They confuse the path. The water path, the tears.
Writers look for impossible love, impossible stories, a
impossible world, so that they get frustrated, disappointed, and ultimately
they feel sad. And a poet is born.
A writer looks for farewells, memories of what will never be
again. They concentrate on the feeling that will never return. A moment lost in
space forever. And a poet is born.
Writers spend every day focusing on the gray, on that day...
that last dance, kiss, touch, word. The misinterpretation of the unsaid. The
lonely walk back home. The rain that doesn't wet. The heartbreaking tales that
never made sense.
And a poet is born from the scream inside. A fire. A tiredness.
A gaze through the window. From the dark. From the silent. From the loudness.
From a passing thought. From feeling hopeless, helpless. From losses and music.
Dreams that stay dreams make writers.
