I have heard mothers recount the long night of their first childbirth and the fear that the baby might die. And I have heard my grandmother talk about the first ball she had at seven years old. And when their souls warmed, they were all poets.
Ray Bradbury
The raindrops falling on the asphalt.
A mysterious and solitary boy who deals with everyone furtively because inside he is someone sentimental and fearful. And one day he falls in love.
A smile, a mother, a friend, and a guide. Salvation itself, that which pulls us out of trouble. What would we do without family?
That flood of ambrosia that fills your chest, a feeling that can only be summarized in one emotion: happiness, upon seeing a task completed, a goal achieved, a book that fascinates you because you read or created it.
Every lived experience leaves a mark on you.
And that's what our souls are made of.
Of little pieces from the outside kept inside.
Why deny expressing it?
This is not how you should behave if you want to have your own voice when writing.
What would you like to capture?
What is hidden within you that you've always wanted to release?
Any love? Injustice? Reflection? The truth about yourself? The truth about the world? A utopian dimension where robots and humans coexist? Anything.
Create a story with that! Hide meaning in every line.
Believe me, you'll feel much better when the outpouring takes hold of you and you end up creating intoxicated with passion.
That's what it's about! Don't you see?
Don't stop to fix mistakes; just move forward. There will be time for that later.
You will feel powerful, self-assured, and relieved.
Holding back emotions leads us to long-term depression.
Let go!
Mimuso will take care of helping you with the rest.
Soul No. 33
—Is it your dream? —I asked him. He seemed absent, so I insisted: being a writer; publishing a book, is it your dream?
I have no dreams —he replied—. I have alternative realities I haven't reached yet.
—And why do you write? —I continued questioning.
—Because it's the only way I know I'm alive.
César Brandon
Just being there to exist is lamentable.
That's not human; it's animal: it's survival.
I'm not telling you to throw a party and lose your mind because that's euphoria, not fulfillment.
I mean to take everything you carry inside, place it on a table, and go to the square to put it on display. If someone makes a bad face, just tell them:
—Hey, this is what there is.
You better be true if you want to immerse yourself in this literary universe.
I think everything has become very clear:
Live.
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