Nonsense

I am not a writer.

And if I write, it’s because you inspire me, you who hurt so much today, you who will never read these words.

I am not a writer, nor am I a friend, for I neglect those who offer me their warmth for the coldness of a stranger’s heart.

I am not a writer, nor am I a brother, because I left my homeland, my dead mother, my old father, and my sad sister, for the great opportunity to cry alone in a strange corner.

In a foreign corner.

I am not a writer, and I do not pretend to be one,

or do I?

I am not a writer. I am a lover, an incomplete man who, by the weight of his blood and his shadow, caged a white dove.

A lover who turned his back on the most beautiful story to try to narrate his own cheap copy.

A lover who stumbled over his wounds, not realizing they were false.

A lover who, in trying to love, ended up writing nonsense.

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