important thing is that I consider myself a writer, how dangerous is that I am a dreamer. Don Fer. Personalities
Today woke with the feeling that he already knew: chills, anxiety, extreme sweating and exasperated heart beats, his stomach looked like a fire whose smoke ran the airways to leave their parched lips hurting the throat.
know that a new addiction had come into her life and decipher exactly what it was: I could never stop writing.
was sick weird for some or addiction may be considered at best a hobby, but for him it was becoming a necessity comparable only with his will to live. The discovery caused great suffering.
He wanted to lead a "normal and healthy", buy a car, a girlfriend, home, pet and money ... I had already tried, but his other addictions had not made fruitful reading, study, cigarettes, alcohol, night wanderings, parties and sex dominated all aspects of your life.
A bride and a start was sparked by the ideas of liberty that flowed in her head killed her. Bought a car and in a fit of anti materialism destroyed it. Got a dog and some unsettling times in a fury, refusing responsibility, gave it away.
He was heartbroken, his dreams now had high temperature. Waking at night drenched in sweat and tired scared, sometimes I could not breathe. The accumulated ideas in his head, which seemed ancient, demanded to be released, but he wanted to be reflected only wanted to be normal, not having those dreams and those needs; longed to be as you, like many others, as the majority.
wet He rose from his bed and decided to return to school - first mistake, in his walk had found old people who, like theirs, their minds were full of abstractions unintelligible insane. At the University had everything but he seemed to have a magnet that drew the most complex and crazy creatures that roamed the aisles: paranoid, schizophrenic, punks, junkies, various musicians, writers, whores and one or more different spirit of the majority.
sometimes compared himself with a insecticide for when trying to establish some relationship with some beings "safe and sane" these he fled. I saw the most with their life plans in place, with its brand new brides and beautiful cars. Listening to their conversations prejudiced against anything that violated their impeccable good manners and morals. Sometimes he felt like following them, join them, to provide even your heart as long as they were showing it to be like them ... to be normal.
always sent flying, and traveling.
Eligio quit his job - "He's second mistake I knew I needed money, lots of money in order to have luxuries, eating at the finest restaurants, exclusive bars drinking, buying the most expensive clothing stores, the latest fashion wear and use the best aromas.
After his terrible discovery had decided to go to a classical music concert at the Palace of Fine Arts in his hometown. Everything was fine and kept quiet until an officer from the government of his country adjure few words in honor of musician who would lead the orchestra - in his country ruled the right and his madness, he knew, was left She began to whistle , booing and demanding with cries angry that he be shut up and leave. I have taken from such a prestigious place if not because the whole public seconded, it was known a leader and for a moment his heart swelled.
He realized that madness is also shared and although he had not carried out their plan, taken over from an older one - to empty LSD in the drinking water systems that came to most households in the city imagined joint reaction and her skin prickle: the freedom to be experienced, perhaps for many for the first time, and would join the magic touch that gives the madness: then we all wake up from their slumber.
When the concert
learned that his world was not the majority. It looked to himself, slurred some words and decided to close the doors to the mass useless, that he no longer served. Decided to try to be the same.
returned to their old ways, repeated the ritual, get carried away sweet and a bit downcast by this new need, wrote, wrote and wrote. Almost miraculously realized that revitalized the spirit without ignoring the suffering that is now associated with something sacred. A sublime only get THROUGH the pain, elucidated.
Some of the different beings that converged on it: intellectual, spiritual creative and were at peace, which lads ran freely in summer wheat fields, but there were other parts that were not quite right: the physical, moral, speedboat, the structural and socially acceptable. Where
depressed him know he would not live as they liked to do:
write, but ramble that if it were to be the same: saturation and subsequent search for other addiction harder to continue in the same game that had been his life. Physically write
raged him: not sleeping or working, her wrists ached constantly, smoked more than they should be injected much more heroína que conseguía después de liarse a golpes en callejones oscuros en donde las apuestas corrían libremente. Sufría pero, en verdad, no podía vivir sin esto.
Cuando creaba la ensoñación y la abstracción lo dominaban todo el día: amanecía crudo, dejaba sus pertenencias - junto a su corazón - en esquinas peligrosas; se prostituía para conseguir algo que comer. No le importaba nada solo escribir… Sabía que estaba vivo gracias a las letras y eso le reconfortaba.
Dejar de lado su locura sería conducirse al suicidio. Soñaba… su rostro iluminado por una sonrisa; su casa llena de accesorios y su jardín repleto de flores y abejas water-soaking drizzle some, their children playing in the yard while he and his partner were kissing warmly saying I love you. His office would be full of diplomas, would use the best brand clothes, his doormat would be fixed in the latest fashion, is amused at the weekend with friends in a bar and then get home early to bed and talk to his wife about the hard work week ... I dreamed and saw lying on a couch watching action films in commercial cable television system.
Perhaps it was better to dream with this alternate reality to imagine that once had been a writer. For him dreams were as real as life itself and I knew that the best or maybe the worst - that will not know until it happens, is that sometimes these become reality.
not want to accept as it was, at times he tried but could not, just waiting for the destination and what this will dictate.
I knew it was coming ...
suddenly awoke. Again?
was in a room, alone. No windows or external life the only ventilation was a small gap which in turn served to spend a little food. Naked, not knowing where I was. He looked at his hands, feet and touch his face: no recognized. I did not know who he was, where it came from or even if it actually existed.
the distance in a corner I see a pencil and several sheets of paper, found it hard to know what it was. Monotonically with a reaction due more to habit than anything else got up, stretched their stiff members and approached these tools to make use of them, wrote, wrote and wrote. And so it went
telling snippets of their lives, longings and dreams. And soon it acquired the personality at that time wanted: yours, the thousands, the writer ...
destination? Would end in when the leaves were finished. Don Fer
May 2008
