The river and the writing

        I write while the river flows. The water is clear and flows slowly. Sometimes it forms a whirlpool, but it continues forward safely and steadily. Writing is like the water flowing in a river when we place words on paper. The pen, like a river, traces words and letters that constantly change, moving through uncertain and shifting paths toward the unknown.
        When there is no rain or clouds in the sky, the river leaves behind puddles like lost files or memories, as if those lonely waters were fragments of the river scattered along its journey. Writing is thinking with freedom, stripped of censorship or concessions, but there are moments when it pauses and makes us question. Thoughts are like puddles the river leaves behind along its journey. Suddenly, lost thoughts find connection between them, like puddles that need only a single drop of water to join together so that another river may appear. Writing is a search for this drop of thought to create a narrative of facts, looking for meaning. Finally, events begin to move, and a story appears like a vision. Both the river and the writing wait for this moment: the long-awaited insight.
       The writer sees the text and studies the words to organise them, wishing for a storm of ideas to overflow with images and expressions, much like the river waiting for the rains at the end of summer. Just as writing needs to reach the imagination, the river must gather the waters falling from the sky to remain full, united and consistent.
        While I write, I watch the river, and it ignores me. It always remains there, writing and rewriting its own images and shapes. The river and the writing add banks and themes along their way, and they don’t care whether their movements affect someone or how the final ending will be. The river and the writer are solitary beings, and both move through torturous lines.
        My writing is my thoughts flowing, and I don’t know how it begins or what it wants to be or do.
      I do not steer the river, nor does it let anyone steer it. When it is contained, it creates an opposing force. If I cannot write anything, it is my imagination searching for a way to be free and describe what I feel. I continue writing, but I am not the master of my own writing, and I wait for it to escape from the prison where all beauty is hidden, so it may flow into verse and prose.
       Fishing in troubled waters is agonising, because we may catch a fish or simply become tangled in branches. The river and the writing surprise us, yet they do not allow us to see their depths. When the writing is in full flow, it waits for the boatman to arrive. Both enter the river to cross troubled waters together, taking the time to learn how to fish.

Photo from: Foto de Anna Hecker na Unsplash

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