And in one moment you understand that here comes a day. This one when you chase the stars and you want to stop this moment, want to keep this silence so the thoughts will never come. And the feeling will never come, to pass, to keep, to shout, to stand by you to say loud- it's final now.
The last words you've said to me were 'Jamais plus' and it let me know that it'd been the last time we ever spoke. Mortality is a tight deadline for those who love.
I remember back then I was thirteen and I told you I wanted to be an author. You told me that authors always live twice. Because the time is not enough. You will never read my novel and you will never see it published, because as you said, the time is never enough.
It's finishing here. In the rainy day on another Monday, I am armed with an empty heart and a dynamite ready to explode, and I'm not tlking to anyone and I'm looking for a spirit who's telling me 'lo siento'. And I've been waiting for a final which passed me unnoticed, and being waiting for all of these months I've got to tell you: You surprised me.
One of interetsing creative writing workshops I took part some while ago advised me to never start a story with a quotation. Ironically, I do this on and on since I remember. And most of my readers don't mind even if I shoot my knee with messing with rules. And apparently sometimes they read even if Monkey Seduction suddenly disappears. And as I promised it was supposed to be an article anbout Goethe, but at the meantime something happened. I lost my grandfather.
This was all I wrote since last Monday as there is nothing as killing for an inspiration as a bleaching distress. It's better to write down, in that moment when you can hear to shout and feel the silence. Persistently. Later on you no longer have a possibility.
He was an exceptional man. Not necessarily recalling one of British comedies, but I know he would laugh if he heard that. His life was marked by a twist of the Great History, the way Kundera would be happy to hear about. He was born in Sankt Petersburg in 1916, which already makes his life at least remarkable. As his funeral note says: 'a nobleman, a theoretic of agriculture, a soldier, a co-founder of a club of catholic inteligence in Opole, author of cogitative stories, member of Human Rights Defence, 'Amicus Veriratis' from 'Reviews' (newspaper), jailed during the state of war, and a gentleman- in hundred percent.' For me, a man in a hat, furry coat in winter, with a rose in his buttonhole, The author of mesmerising stories about his life in Africa, with such hard language of narration that nobody aged minus 60 was able to understand.
A strawberry cake for summer, every year I was finishing the school. The walks in the park around the palace, and swans, gone with one winter forever. And the first time I told you I wanted to be a writer. Just like you.
No comments:
Post a Comment