life, literature

The Writer

That strange mood that a lonely evening at the lake can put me in when the sun choose to set in yet another spectacular way and a warm quiet wind stirred gently.

The evening, one of the last of a summer that was too short, one that already hints of autumn.

That mood that comes with silence that speaks truths I sometimes don’t want to hear. The whispers of the echos in the hidden rooms of my soul.

That last hidden room, where I don’t dare to turn on the lights because I know the beast that resides in there. The wanting, the wanting of something I cannot have.

And maybe it’s the sounds, the music, the whispers of this room that make me the writer I am. And sometimes I wish I were not but instead found some of that happiness that swallows the words that I breathe.

But I can’t be what I’m not.