A collection of writings on… well, writing.
So why, actually, do you [want to] write?
I think I’m bursting but I don’t know with what.
Maybe writing is like taking a pen, sticking it into skin and seeing what’s inside.
I need sleep
It said, you know what stay up because
you need to grasp at those creative moments
but I’m tired, recording is tough
it said, you only live each of this once
she had to concede it was right
but then when it came the time to right -write
she could only record the conversation of getting there
and did not write-right about Jonachian ethics
about him leaving the room
about the tiny smile but also the silence
always the silence where she just wants him to say or to write, to finally finally express
let it out, it’s only a flood a torrent
and countless cells of your body die when you pop a pimple, anyway.
Countless the amount of times that, pushed by something which is not my planning mind
I turn to paper – well, virtual paper
and let fingers dance a little bit
now, replacing the movement of my own dying body
the body that wants to jump dance scream sing
but is held back, probably by habit
then by tiredness.