Sigo sin poder escribir de forma creativa. Sé que la voz no se ha extinguido, porque es mi propia voz, pero está alejada, en su propio mundo, como desintegrada. Está poseída por un tremendo interrogante, y tal vez no quiere reproducir palabras en castellano. English is different, though. It could go on in English, but it doesn't want to, either. It feels impaired and searching, doesn't want to lash out words and concepts in English, it would be too free and it wants to be sharp and direct, and English would just be too much of a gamble at the moment. That's very weird; it is like an empty rainy day. Not a full, melancholic rainy day, but an empty, self absorbing, deep and long rainy day. And my heart goes round and round like a lost soul, like a prisoner, wanting to find atonement and redemption. That's me right now. And I'm just ten fingers plunking at the computer like an out of tune piano, with a screeching sound tearing and tensing out of my mind, a derelict mind that is licking its internal wounds. So what's happening? I do want to tell, describe, explain, but that's not the nature of narration, perhaps. You see with the mind and feel with the eyes and think with the heart, it's all a big jumble of moving mirrors inside, behind those eyelids.
I'm not happy with anything that I'm writing. I say to myself, never mind, but I do mind. My brain is fizzled; it's ok to feel a little jaded inside. What's important is to carry on writing and letting go of that imagery that takes shape and composes itself over the canvas of my mind, that third layer of thought. I just want to keep awake and ready to listen to all the asynchronous sounds that gravitate so that I could at some point snatch them and render them alive in my writing.
Ok, I've lost the fear or writing in English. It's ok, this is what I have to do, I guess. I can't recoil into Spanish at the moment, however limitless my vocabulary may be. It's interesting, how limitless is not the point anymore, but whatever comes out regardless of the amount because it churns out of the source, and the source is heated up, it's alive, it's truthful and bare and responsive, and that's all that matters.
I have a wondering mind and a hungry heart. Many things left unsaid, uttering displaced, communication construed.
I'm not happy with anything that I'm writing. I say to myself, never mind, but I do mind. My brain is fizzled; it's ok to feel a little jaded inside. What's important is to carry on writing and letting go of that imagery that takes shape and composes itself over the canvas of my mind, that third layer of thought. I just want to keep awake and ready to listen to all the asynchronous sounds that gravitate so that I could at some point snatch them and render them alive in my writing.
Ok, I've lost the fear or writing in English. It's ok, this is what I have to do, I guess. I can't recoil into Spanish at the moment, however limitless my vocabulary may be. It's interesting, how limitless is not the point anymore, but whatever comes out regardless of the amount because it churns out of the source, and the source is heated up, it's alive, it's truthful and bare and responsive, and that's all that matters.
I have a wondering mind and a hungry heart. Many things left unsaid, uttering displaced, communication construed.
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