A blank page.
The shadows of candlelight to take off that white sheet on his natural candor, while providing a warm romantic, but no less vexing.
He stood there, staring at him with a quill pen in hand, full of ink now withered by time. His hand hovered in midair, holding the instrument once belonged to a bird, and now recycled to perpetuate an idea on a sheet of paper, with the help of an indelible black ink.
But no thought was written. And not a single word.
The paper continued to stare, empty and irreverent.
The writer, he felt like that paper, which would not emerge from nothing.
His desire to see the words appear, was reflected on paper yellowed by time and by the dim light. But nothing happens by itself.
could be a sheet so insistent? He stood motionless on the desk, empty and useless. The sight of the tediava day after day, until the torment.
Once on that paper, ran a black river. Words intertwined with one another, to make up a nest of stories, from which ideas were overflowing, ready to be captured one after another.
Now, on this desert yellow, there was more life, like that in him.
For several months, it was just the running time instead of ink, transporting more and more towards the delirium and insanity.
A microcosm consisting of a sheet, a pen and himself, into which he felt trapped.
He also gave life to find a quiet word in that universe.
moment by moment, anxiety fed on itself.
if anyone could hear, if words are once its allies and friends, to come back to help him in this terrible time. Why
had abandoned him, too? If only I could sleep ...
kidnapped him. But nothing changed in the room, where already the absolute silence reigned.
Tlic. A noise
took it from her sleep light. A black drop
had moved from pen and had slipped down.
Falling on the paper, rubbed all around in a circle. He was shivering in the glare of light. That drop would have to be inanimate, trembling and twitching.
stretched. Was taking shape itself.
no one to help her, the timid creature turned into a collection of letters, and stared at the blank surface, still illuminated by the faint light of the lamp.
DROP A.
This word had settled on that paper, the instant a drop of ink, broke away from the nib.
Yet he was sure not to have written it. Absolutely certain. The
saw, touched, already quite dry and absorbed by the paper.
He was not dreaming. It was the first word after a long time.
happy but at the same time amazed she could not connect.
With a slight smile on his lips, put his quill pen on the paper and looked up.
When lowered, put his hands to his eyes and rubbed them fiercely, trying to get rid of the other words that were there waiting for him.
PENNAD 'OC A.
Absurd.
The pen was gone. In its place on the paper had appeared out of nowhere these three words. Well written, although with a handwriting that was not his.
He believed that a writer's worst enemy was the anxiety, but that vision troubled him far beyond their fears.
The surprise left him immobile.
woke from slumber, he picked up that paper. She looked into the background.
It had nothing different from before, except those words appeared from nowhere. The rest, thrilled with a sort of respect, perhaps resulted from the fear of the unknown.
When removed his hand from the paper, a new discovery left him breathless.
In one corner, the same he had used to challenge it, now was written across a word he was going to go off right in the vertex in question.
INCH E.
Exactly where he placed his finger was now written the name of the thing that had touched. This reasoning
caught him off guard.
saw what happened until then.
The drop of ink falling on the sheet. The quill pen. And now the thumb.
was frantic search for a logical absurdity in that context. Yet if ever there was one, seemed rather obvious.
contact.
When brooded on this discovery, and sought within itself a reason for all this, again instinctively took his thumb and almost the same spot to seek a confirmation of the absurd, he turned the sheet and winced.
In the back of that, there could be a word in logical, written in the lower left.
INDIC E.
And so it was written.
immortalized in black figures, these words were there, suggesting that surreal situation.
What mattered at the end of reality? Now, after days vacuous and desperate, the words that were popular back in the white desert.
Greed drove him to continue, the stronger of the doubt and fear of the unknown.
thrown together on that sheet fertile and mysterious objects that were at hand. His breathing became labored, and his heart shook his chest.
Many words were added to the previous ones scattered about that piece of paper with the names of the objects that you had put on.
The excitement was great.
But not enough to satisfy him. He felt that he could be more daring.
The trembling hand descended upon that magical instrument that produced sounds instead of words.
It was basically to understand how to play it to produce something more than just black notes placed on it in bulk. After all, he felt that the instrument could also play a symphony, complete, unique and surprising.
had just discovered his language, to reach the goal.
pressed the palm of his hand open on that page, as if to breathe on it a divine blessing.
but still did not know if it was the divine or of its antagonist.
But the thing at the moment for him was irrelevant. He was interested in the result, and for this he was ready to give all of himself.
The words began to flow in, and closed eyes prevented him from seeing what was going on out there.
many ideas crowding his mind, as instruments and sounds in search of common air.
He would not even open my eyes, yet he knew that something was happening.
A story flowed from the depths of his innermost ego. The story that perhaps he had never dared to even think about that now seemed clear and vivid in his mind.
The moment he opened his eyes, he saw a sheet impregnated with words to the brim. It was a tale, indeed, the prologue to the novel that has always wanted to write but never had even managed started.
His imagination galloping, and a new white paper that replaced the former was placed at the side, to be the first of many of its peers. Together, they form the work that he, like other authors have identified as the "book of life."
A sentence that he better not ever say ahead of time.
from his hand gushed torrents of words that filled pages and pages, while his mind was dreaming now, with open eyes, the history that brought with it ever since.
Time passed. Minutes, hours, maybe days. He did not know anymore.
He goes on and on without stopping, driven by an irrepressible desire.
not slept for days. She did not eat. E even quench their thirst. A barely remember to breathe. The
craving to see the end of what has always haunted him was stronger than everything.
He felt that the end was near. It was not just the end of the novel.
forces abandoned him, but still remained a few pages to write and everything would be done.
One morning, while the soft light of the light gave way to dawn light, the manuscript was left completely exhausted by the outstretched hand on the table and the desk.
A feeling of contentment pervaded him leading him to realize at that moment that everything was done.
His fate with that novel came to an end, perhaps before the appointed time.
Greed, the anxiety of wanting to throw up all that work in such a short time they had consumed, depleting it with the life he had left to live.
felt as if she had wanted so eagerly, his life would be much longer. However, the life's work was written, his wish fulfilled. But the time that it was still living who had been given to this wish was fulfilled.
still do not know who it was. Perhaps the devil had taken possession of him in that moment of weakness, perhaps God had decided to fulfill a wish before it happened the irreparable, and a life was spent for nothing.
He felt, the instant you let go, that he would know who was to thank for that. The manuscript
hours he stood there, well arranged and ready to be read, by whom he had first discovered that a man, lying inert on a chair with a smile off his face to draw. A man who was said to writer ... and thanks to that work became the ... posthumously.
