in ✏️Writing

What I write when I write about writing

What I write when I write about writing.

I suck therefore I write

Remembering when I have that writing need. I don’t even know what I want to talk about. I just put my thoughts and paper and start rambling on. I am in a flow. Unstoppable. What I actually write is not that good, but I love that feeling. It’s like talking non-stop with somebody I am so comfortable with. That happens not only with pen and paper, but at night on a computer. Excuse me if I’m not too trendy for owning a typewriter or wanting to be somebody else like Hank fucking Moddy.

The first writer who actually pops to my mind every time I have this little sessions is actually Jack Kerouac. Spontaneous prose. Just dots but no spaces. I don’t like to idolize but I do love to admire. Inspiration of actions and thoughts are always a good way to keep me moving. It can actually make me move miles and miles, and I don’t even know why I talk about miles when I was born in Barcelona.

Sometimes I feel that what I am going to leave behind is not good enough. Not enough quantity not enough quality. I don’t understand why I have to have the need of leaving something. How can I actually be expressive enough? Make a mirror of my thoughts when they constantly change? It’s kinda like those people recording videos for their future selfs. I do leave words now. I like to look at myself, but can you imagine somebody 100 years from now reading these lines? Will they find this too boring to actually reach this point? I would probably think so. But sometimes I like to evade myself from all the business stuff I used to love, and how has become a burden of satisfaction.

At one point is when you have to say that is enough, that you don’t need to stress over things which have no end. Fortunately this divagation has.

200 crappy words

January 21st, 2017
Two hundred words to warm up my hands, heart and head. Two hundred words that are crappy, outrageous and unreliable. Were I can be totally free of being wrong, sounding good or basically just… Putting words out there. Because that’s what it’s all about, or what I want it to be all about. I have a piano next to me and the keyboard I type doesn’t sound as good. I have a glass of water on my hand and a beautiful women in front. Desire of greatness I don’t want to have anymore. I just want to get rid of the despair and the doom heard that my hand bear. I secretly wish that people cheered for my words, that I didn’t need to use them only for pouring senses, but for rising fences. I stood there for five seconds and looked for a word, then I realized it was only two hundred crappy letter put together that I had to type. And then I felt the hype of typing again, when the Wifi didn’t work and when Hemingway that I never read before cheered for more. It sounded funny at first, but crappy the most.

Coffee with myself

January 25th, 2017
Here I sit, in my old hometown café. Months of traveling, years. Many friends behind, much freedom to spend. Trying to figure out the riddle of what it means to be here. The digital products still passionate me, but as I sip more coffee I feel the need to create something with my hands. It might be the caffeine, maybe my carpenter father genetics, or just a rush to try something new. Money and time I have, passion I lack. I talk with myself inside while I grab the cup. I give myself answers while I steer the spoon. Secretly an artist I want to be, and in secret I want to live. Because in mystery my ego is hidden. Showing to the world might mean grow an interest for the external, not the internal. In the pursuit of the expressiveness I continue, while trying to getting rid of my robot lifestyle. Routines and planning is what destroyed my magic, I want to get it back the same way I want another cup. A few crappy words, a few shitty bowls, a few bad shaped forms on wood or rock. I don’t need much more. Just a few more tries.

Tell to the writer

March 28th, 2017
What I’m doing sometimes would work as a punishment in Hell and eternity ruled by demons, but for me it would taste like freaking haven. Have it that way! They would care about the finish line. But tell to the painter that he can stop painting after 20 artworks and he will be rich, and he will start another one. Tell to the composer that after thousands of people have sung his song he will not need to worry about money again, and he will close himself up in a dark room, putting his soul again and again into another melody. Tell to the writer that after he has achieved fame and his books and poems have been brought to the big screen, he won’t have to worry again about having a common job, and he will keep pouring ink into an empty page every time he feels sorrow.

I read Murakami, I glimpse Thoreau

August 15th, 2017
I should be doing something else. I got drained in the media, the money, the time. I read back what I wrote, I like it, I love it and I forget why I stopped. I look at the date and I miss despair and sadness. What I wanted to be gone for good from my life now I want it back so bad and be able to create something. If I’m not in a crisis I just write about writing, and how much it means. But how can it means something if I only write about how much it means? I read Murakami, I glimpse Thoreau and some great others. Then I go to the same computer, I browse through and endless feed and then I ask myself why I cannot start writing anymore. I get inspired slowly and I lose the desire at once. My heart raises when I started to drop two lines, but that is only because I want to grab my device. Maybe somebody has written me, and for sure no one has read me. I force myself to make sense, to find a meaning on what I write but I feel I need more life on my veins. I’m not able to make them up, I can only read and suck at it hoping it will wake up my brain.