Thoughts that pass through the mind. A sudden flash, a way of seeing the world. A desire to share.
“Writing is my remedy
against the impermanence
of things.”
A bookshop is a refuge of words. I curl up there like a lost soul, wounded by words that pass—those we forget, those we discard—words that are nevertheless so precious for expressing accurately what we think.
I have travelled the world in response to the call of the open road, to my thirst for others. I have crossed paths with so many people. Familiar faces. Faces that cried out: “I am happy to meet you, my distant friend, my brother in spirit.” And so we fill our hearts with this spontaneous joy, which tastes of reunion—as though we had grown up together.
My cheeks tingle in the cool wind. The sun brushes against me here and there. I hear life in the rustling of the stream. Thin layers of ice sway. I sigh, motionless. I look up towards the sky. Who are we? Am I here or elsewhere? The universe seems both so far away and so close. My fingers caress a carpet of damp moss. The earth becomes part of me. My feet slip into the water. My toes tell me a story. “Ressens,” they say to me!
Sometimes, when I write, I feel like a pinball machine. Words ricochet inside me, awakening sensations that become the promise of sentences yet to come.
Writing is my remedy against the impermanence of things.
I love this confession by Martin Eden, in the words of Jack London:
“Sometimes I feel as though the world, life, everything… were calling out to me, demanding that I give them body in writing and become their voice.”
This feeling is profoundly familiar to me. It is one of the reasons why I write.
