About writting

          In my opinion, the act of writing is challenging. When I stare at a blank sheet of paper with no marks on it, it’s like seeing a balm for my woes. I go through my memories and disturb them as if I’m trapped in an endless loop on an infinite walk. I put my memories and tricks from both my childhood and youth in order to bring back to life some lost events from my past, or to explore my mind as I try to untangle collars of stone and glass.
        Words brainstorm across the white page like a ghost or an apparition to inspire me. It’s like feeling a pain in my soul and seeing a spirit that gives me goosebumps. It’s a bolt falling onto the white sheet, a gift from the sky. Then… a minute later, I make it rain, rolling dry and scentless tears down my face, and I summon winds to show me an enigmatic image.
       It’s a Joker sitting on the windowsill, riding a fictitious horse. He takes my enchanted arms with an impressive command and tells me funny events or dramas while he beholds my open, curious and astonished eyes. I think that I’m in charge of everything, that I will write an unknown story, but only the Joker, the colourful writer, knows it.
        After the storm, the winds disappear, and the Joker, the magic window and the imaginary horse go away. I sit there reading the pages that I have written thousands of times, unable to believe that it was all hidden in my mind and that I, stupidly, hadn’t perceived it.

Photo from: Foto de Soumyojit Sinha na Unsplash

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