TO BE A WRITER
How nice to be a writer!
You keep plasticine worlds in your pockets, you shape them differently for each person with your dry fingers, and you grow to them wings from the rest stored under your nails. You can practice your autograph for days and perfect it on napkins, notebooks, and skin of young girls until get sick, sicker, and sickest, and all over again. Through the silence, you can tell passers-by how heavy the glasses on your nose are with their thick frames.
You can be arrogant enough and choose a mess of rags in which you will sink your body, and before others, you will say that actually you do not care how you look. You can philosophize indefinitely in one-way and if your thoughts betray you, you can write a dozen pages about that.
How nice to be a writer!
You can choose the font as you wish for your name to be written on the cover of the new book. You can fill the ashtray for hours and steam the room in smoke being a non-smoker. You can invent fake places where you get inspiration: in nature, in a shop, in an elevator, while waiting in line at the cash register to pay for food of inorganic origin. Whatever you say will be greeted with applause because you are the writer. You can fall in love with your heroines, talk to them, laugh, cry and live. You can close the door to reality and make yourself a phenomenon even though it is never locked. You can take drugs in the name of art. And make money on her behalf.
If I were a writer, surely this story would have been much longer. But I’m not, and it ends up quietly right here.
It is the most difficult to describe everyday life. As a target on the shooting range, hollowed out with trifles by the average amateurs; built from the enthusiasm of its passersby; tatted on the edges like a handkerchief by a young girl with a routine that crawls on the nerves.
Yes, it’s the same everyday life we all pack it in like a luxury birthday present. Just in our bed poisonous adders rattle with the years packed on its tail, and we carry ours on the gray hair and the hanging skin on the face.
Everyday life is the hardest to describe. We kneel before him like punished children in front of the teacher who is complacently watching our agony flowing from our knees down on the spilled corn on the floor. Every day, every hour, our teacher, persistently, secretly, and imperceptibly, pours more stones into our pockets while we, the fools, climb up to the hill. The closer we get to the top, the heavier the stones become. Sisyphus’s absurd is the shadow that drags behind our heels while dressed up we run on a meeting with our loved ones. Lightning shines on our sky every time disaster defeats us, and we say “tomorrow will be better” but even we, ourselves, do not believe in that.
Suddenly, the beautiful moments insidiously sicken already sick, impersonal days. On the way, we pick and greedily hide under our armpits the preciousness of happiness. Sometimes it is difficult, and even harder sometimes. But when was lightness delicious for the little man’s greedy jaw?
THE DISCUSSION OF WRITERS
Two writers spoke, one young and inexperienced, and the other old and wise. The young man asked the older one:
– Sir, which works are most beautiful, the ones that the writer managed to experience personally or the ones that are the fruit of his imagination?
The old writer replied:
– Boy, what the imagination can fertilize, man cannot live even in a hundred lives. The power of imagination is enormous, it knows no boundaries, but only infinity can be reached when the heart builds a bridge with teeth.
So the writer slowly climbed to the green clouds, disguised himself as a white bird, and disappeared into the rainbow.