A world of words and conjugations to explore. As F. R. David say in one of their songs "words don't come easy". In attempt to contradict that quote, I will try to share all the toughs and creations stuck in my mind, continuously screaming to get out. I don't expect comprehension, I don't expect any kind of kindness from you. I prefer simple, straight, honest opinions about what you read. I could say that I don't care what you think, but that would be bullshit. Everybody cares about what others think, even if it's the worst thing you can possibly imagine or feel. Because at the end of the day, that counts. As for writers that supposedly write what come from their inside and don't give a crap about what the readers think about their pieces, well, that's just a lie. They write with a purpose, I write with a purpose, and that purpose is quite understandable; to please their audience. Every writer supposedly has one. You are not obliged to like what I write, nor other writers. However, if someone's writing pleases the person who reads it, then I'm sure, next time he writes, he'll have that person in mind. We can see from many successful examples in the industry. On how a first book lead to a second one and so forth. The audience liked, the book sold out. The writer knew that if it was that incredibly successful, the structure, the alignment, were correctly done. The conclusion was easy to take, the public liked it. So yes, writers care. Although our creations stems from our imagination or living experiences, we feel achieved when our work is acknowledged by others. It feels good to write? Yes. It feels indeed. For itself, it helps fleeing from this life and embody some character, or some feeling that we think might me interesting to write about. Nevertheless, the bigger ability of pleasing our public will increase our responsibility towards him, and thus increase our motivation to improve and explore new horizons. It's like a spiral. We write so you can judge us according to our words, our statements, our way to see our surroundings and ourselves. But, at any point, don't think we don't care about your thoughts. They can and will help us on the long road. Everyone aims for Perfection. We ear many times there is no such thing. Well, perhaps we can't achieve perfection. I'm sure I'm still far away of being anywhere near greatness. Yet, I write. Good things, bad things, awful, unstructured things. Some inaccurate, others just terrible to read, maybe. But that's the journey I have to make and endure. To become a better writer? For sure. To achieve something? Also. So, what's the main goal? That must come from inside us, mine is to improve myself, to keep pushing and pushing, to see how far I can go. Everything is lived like an experience. Going on a trip, visiting a new city, reading a new book... And this, this is one of my own. John Waine
Everything is immovable in his room, stopped, stuck in time. Suddenly, a sheepish glance. It's morning. He's trying to fight his will to keep is eyes closed, but they fight back, blinking and blinking looking for something to focus.
He felt this strange feeling, when he woke up.
The once considered his home, his room, was now, a simple place where he could try to rest his mind and get some sleep until the time comes to return to the place where he belongs.
What was the matter anyway? Everything that reminded him of her was there. Her smile. Her voice. Her smell.
The house was cold, his heart was freezing. Every time he searched for the main reason why he didn't feel fine there, he founded a panoply of them. But, time by time, he continued to exclude them, and finding new ones, over and over again.
However, today it was all different. No more excuses. No more running from reality. Everything was nude and raw. His mother died eight months ago, and yet all his memories where still so real that he couldn't keep them away from his thoughts.
He wanted to let go right from the beginning. He tried to created a new world right away. He tried to be the adult that he wanted to be, but now he knows he couldn't. This day, he understood that there were no reasons why he didn't feel like home anymore. There was a hole. A big, gigantic perdition, with no turning back, with no salvation. And right in the midst of such loss, there was a damaged kid, broken and frail, with his heart ripped out. He tried to live, he tried to be normal, but he was only living in his own mind. In his past.
Yes. To him, it all seemed so real. But it was all so intangible and unreachable. Only if he could see that everything was falling apart a long time ago, and that death marked the end of a fairy tale and the start of a walk through hell.
Many tried. His close ones tried. His friends tried. The world tried. But he never managed to see what was in front of his own eyes.
The world changed, his world changed and, despite of not knowing, he changed too, in so many ways that he could never imagine. In so many forms that he could never idealize.
Eight months have passed, and today he woke up feeling different. I beg to differ. Eight months have passed and he's finally waking up, second by second, facing his new reality, minute by minute, adjusting himself, hour by hour, conforming itself with the past, day by day, until someday, he'll stop blinking his eyes and opening them to the world.
Today was that day. No more darkness or illusion. No more dreams and fantasy. It was time to face all the real reality. Just the cold hard truth.
Worse than living a lie is to come to believe in it. Let's have hope and trust, so this kid can find his way and fill his life with joy and happiness, at last.
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