There are so many things to write about that I am not so much overwhelmed as excited by the thought of where to begin. I used to say “there are so many books to read in this fleeting life”, and I’m sure I’m not the only one, but as I got more serious I added “there are so many stories, so many memories to write”. I think the greatest torture for a writer is not to be immortal. The desire of the scholars of that time to become ethereal was very understandable when I looked at it from that point of view.
Unlike people, writings are what endure. Even if the letters were written in the distant past, even if they have not survived to the present day, they have always existed somewhere out there. Regardless of their status or recognition in society, people have always written. After all, what would they do if they did not write? Who would write history, religion, myth on papyri, stones, mud? Sometimes they solved the transmission of language by drawing with a stick, sometimes by engraving curves; they couldn’t resist, so they wrote and wrote, everyone with pen, ink and paper in hand.
I am one of them, a drop in the ocean, no different from the heavenly bodies in the universe, as if I were a speck on the earth. My words are always lost between sentences, aren’t they lost anyway in narratives, then books, volumes, writers, lives…
When the expression of the infinite emotions of our limited lives, which are different from each other, is reflected in genres, the resulting combinations give birth to unique ones. And yet, what does it mean not to write parts of yourself, both faces blush. You can be what you want, the life you want at the time you want… Perhaps you can convey the remains of the kite that flew away when you were a child.
I wish I were a wise vampire emerging from fiction, a saint trying to keep his faith even in a post-apocalyptic age, a scribe witnessing the wars of history, a traveller not hesitating to venture into unique lands, a child wandering between times, I would write, read more, knowing that I would not die. Perhaps it is death that makes all this more valuable: “Will you write or read what is given to you in this little time?”
As I write, I understand, I see, I taste this feeling. I say: “Let it never leave my hand, there is nothing like it”. Writing is like the excitement of a child, the first touch of a lover’s lips, the moments when you feel life. Because each one is special, even if you think you are writing the same thing over and over again. If the tortuous history of letters and their different paths to the same end does not surprise you, forgive me, perhaps you are missing a few planks in your thick head.
Writing, my friend, is a medicine for the passionate. It is said that those who overdose are the companions of the mad. To polish the mind now and then is to be sane and sound.
Then look at what is written in this style. Continue to ponder the meanings within these lines. The juxtaposition of my humble words, the endless bowing of my existence beside the masters.
This is a translation of the poem I wrote in my own language, so I know I can’t give it all, but here we go.
Oh, poetry, the language’s pledge, the song’s decree
To the heart, a voice; to the mind, a key
A solace for the mute, don’t deem blind forlorn
Both the lover tells, and the skeptic does query
In the lover’s tune and verse, abundance we see
The kings discern the sweat on his brow with glee
The pens, obedient to his command, with a glance
The essence of writing is divine, by thee.
You enlighten the thoughts lying dormant
“Play, O musician, play my song, O bard!”
What’s written and drawn, is my tale, my lore
There is no gain left in his hand nor his card
Ink spoke up, while its dried throat caress
“Is there no way, no method for me to renounce?”
“Courtesy, the elixir! Your excuse, so sublime!”
“Oh nay! Never shall I tire of this rhyme, your Highness!”
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