"Some of us are quiet because we hold a secret."
— (via writerinspace)

writerinspace:

I accept you for your quirks not because you have accepted me despite mine but for your patience and the way you understand my humanity. I love you not because you are perfect but because you know I am not; and you still love me nonetheless.

"I still love you but I don’t deserve you anymore."
— ten word story #24, V.I. (via vaguelyinked)

writerinspace:

The world is created with doubt, skepticism and dementia. But when I’m with you, all those things vanish and turn into a part of one’s imagination. What a relief it is to know that in this chaotic place there’s still a little light that still shine for us if we need it to.

Though we’re empty, we’re happy.

writerinspace:

Your breath captivates me, sweet and haunting whisper
This wordless melody, unclassifiable symphony
Sequence of metronomic lullaby reassures me
It’s in my ear; your music in great tempo.

You taught me patiently the rhythm of your body
And the fiery bass tone meets my heart’s chords,
Point languid violins, our love is all electric
Drums and synthesizer are our idyllic instruments

In the fervor of our nights, we ever deal
My guitar ablaze, our beautiful warm voices intertwine
We will never stop this crescendo of pure delicacy. 
Inspire me again, your kiss on my neck is so sensual.

writerinspace:

You always ask for someone who will be there for you in the middle of the night just to have a small talk when in fact that you are not there for someone who needs you.

writerinspace:

Maybe when we die, the first thing we’ll say is, "I know this feeling, I was here before."

writerinspace:

I wake up one morning and I know I’m dead,
not because my legs are burning,
but because my heart pumps the acid.
All around me burst into little
pieces of life in slow motion,
as in silent dreams.

The cabin is rapidly depressurized.
The heart skips beats, then a single, then acid.
We begin to take stock of things after having
lived intensely at least once,
not even a half a second.
Before that, it’s oblivion,
after that, I couldn’t tell.

The whole universe comes down
then infinities’ hollowed sounds
which follow under the sunglasses,
caressing white infinity of nothingness.
Before that, it’s a lie, after that,
even if it’s not really the truth,
it is still a little less lying.

It would be natural to think
that the body is buried in
the throes of its own corroded
veins, but it’s not.
It’s not comparable,
barely describable,
it is both near and far.

The wintry weather descends,
it’s what one would expect here,
or even elsewhere.
We are surprised to understand.
Last day of the equinox;
blue moon, lungs torn,
but all this is still very
superficial when we know
that it have to last.

I wake up one morning and
I just know I’m dead.

writerinspace:

Unknowingly living is like writing a book with indelible ink. It was nice to hide the lines; that’s just close our eyes and hide the truth. Tear off the page, rip or burn it, whatever, it always leaves a scar in the binding of our lives.

Yet the snatched page is to suppress the transition, starting a new one, try to forget the previous one and move forward. And the next, she is as white as the first? A little grayer than the first, damaged by the ravages of time, overshadowed by the uncertainties of the past, but intact enough to write it. What a strange paradox that you can read in the past of a blank leaf appearance. One way to leave only what you will, to see only what we want to see. To each his own renaissance, with its share of past, more or less bad. Torn pages are forgotten, flights, and bleached.

I am now the writer of my own life.
A forgotten past, a present to live, a future writing.

writerinspace:

The paper crunches under my pen, words are scrolling down, keep it coming, and intermingled, creating phrases that I never imagined. Worlds are born, the world disappear, men live and die, years just pass in the blink of an eye. The light within me, I don’t know who I am, nor the time in which I live, I feel like a pure spirit. I cry, I laugh, I sweat, I smile, thoughts of my heroes inhabit me, this is not my writing, it’s not my decision, another force acts. God or demon muse, whatever, I’m just a puppet in his hands. Time no longer exists, hours pass like seconds, everything goes so fast, the leaves pile up, the night passes, and the dawn arrives. And I’m still here, hunched over my desk, sitting in the chair that I no longer feel. I see and hear nothing but I am saying words. The words of my characters go through my mouth before becoming theirs, I imagine their thoughts, trying to understand their torment. I hurt when they got hurt, my heart bleeds when they suffer, and I am moved when all ends well.

I am only an instrument of thought, the extension of an idea. I pick through the air to tell their stories, I bring to the lives of the fallen heroes, and I change the course of time, blind the bullies, and gives birth to hope where there never was.

I am a god, an architect, a genius, I built worlds to let them live on their own, I am the Creator, the Great False knocking down the existences, I am the Alpha and the Omega. For me, everything starts and ends.

The wind blows, the storm sounds, the earth is crying, the walls are shaking. I’m in another world where dragons, tornadoes, monsters, then a little girl, a knife, blood exist. As well as horse racing, gladiator rebels, and armed battles. The love of a mother, the glory of a prince, the tears of the defeated. Death and joy. Hatred and unhappiness. Goodness. Everything appears and disappears, worlds collide, combining to continue and creating new worlds for themselves.

I’m just the spokesperson, I relate the facts, ever closer to the truth. Fiction and biographies, everything is mixed up, I put death to the kings, starve the people, change the course of rivers and strengthens the heart. History is my playground, I save Joan of Arc from the flames. I play with the legends, have fun with the dates. German crash on the Maginot Line, the villagers of My Lai hid weapons and Alexander conquered India.

Writing is a drug. The spirits of the past demanding justice and those people of the future. They haunt my mind, guide my hands as I travel through time and space. The dimensions succeed and the adventures continue. I travel the multiverse in search of the great work. The reality is canceled, I am a being of light.

I cry, I tremble and I exult. I tear the universe frames in search of the perfect world, I fumble, and change the words, and adds syllables and modifies punctuation. I add stars, galaxies removed, sorts the planets, the stars bombed. Time is slipping away, life appears and the work continues on its own. After six days of work, God rested, the continuous creation alone, it remains for me to watch it grow.

Everything is so easy now. The light bathes the story, it is a world without end; an endless adventure. Cities teeming with life, thoughts of their people come to me and hear their prayers. For the sake of history, I perform the certain. I am Almighty, I can change the course of things, and I can make the cowards heroes, shoot down dreams to abyss, and delete all of a whim. Then what will I do? Tear, delete, delete and repeat the cycle to find the right note. Cross out and resume until the score is perfect. Live to create. Live to be god. Live to death.

I write and I write again. That’s the only thing I can do. My world opens my mind awakens, past and future merge including my present. Lord of heaven or mere mortal, the world appears to me as it should be. I create, I think and I’m having fun. Universes are born of my fingers. I am a writer today and forever.