Writing

Writing is a beast attacking at night... it's a tiger sleeping at your side... it’s a need without a need; it’s a series of words rolling like pearls from the heart to the pen or from the soul to the blowing wind. It’s a nothing that feels like everything, it’s something you cannot explain, even if it has always been there, like a sweet torn, like a castle only your eye can see. Writing is not a proof of something, is a proof of nothing, probably of the nothingness of existence or of its being full of something beyond existence. Some people say the writer is an egotist because they just don’t know, they just cannot understand, they’ll never understand. The writer is not even there, his words are not even “his”. His words come from somewhere else and they go somewhere else. The writer does not care of judgment and he is not afraid of the darkness of night. The authentic writer is just a hand and a soul at a service of a higher service, that’s all. In contemporary society we are used to the “big ego authors”, those who fill pages over pages only with the little croaks of their ego and their words resonate all with that same echo of emptiness.
There are writers writing because of the impossibility of writing, like Paul Celan (“The poem is still only capable of speaking because it exposes itself to the impossibility of its speaking”), and writers like Fernando Pessoa who pretends to feel the pain they feel. There are writers writing even against their own will and writers just looking for a way out of writing, and if you ask them what it means to write, they will give you the most human answer of all: “I don’t know”.

(Dr. Divago)