Writing
I could write way more, but it is exhausting to gut myself out, to spread them on a table in the most poetic way possible.
The fluid emergence of the words, the typing dexterity my hands are capable of, as fast as the thoughts flow. These allow me to bring ideas to life through some texts which, if I think too much, disappear.
Writing is not a creative exercise to me; it is a necessity. These are things that usually don’t find a compassionate ear. It is evacuating frustrations born from the daily and infinite confrontation between me and a world I fail to accept. A world with notions I disapprove of, and outrage me most of the time.
Writing allows me to confess things others are not ready to hear about. It is a place that gives birth to the freedom of being transgressive, unfair and rude. It is, I believe, my last form of liberty, that I cherish and couldn’t stand to lose. We can no longer own our bodies or talk about what we want. We are policed, watched, manipulated, subjected to, so much that we don’t even see it anymore. We are evolving in a sneaky society, run by a vicious government which strives to – insidiously and under the cover of national security – destroying our most fundamental rights, one after the other.
In a world where I feel cornered, trapped, confined, writing is the ultimate form of rebellion that comes to me, the last warmth, the last ray of sunshine, my own and personal revolt, the expression of my freedom of thoughts in its purest expression.
Of course, I am far from being the only one. And I believe it is absolutely deplorable, and of an infinite sadness, to have nothing but words echoing in the void.
What worth do our words hold nowadays?
Is their impact the same, whether we are a public figure or mister Nobody?
Of course not.
Who am I fooling, believing that my words and impassioned declarations will touch the people I am reciting to ? Nobody.
Who cares about the opinion of a twenty-seven year old girl, that will no longer be remembered once I am gone ?
What are words, in the end, but a band-aid on ourselves, a placebo to give us the illusion of having some sort of importance outside the walls of our own houses ?
Those who talk with intentions find a very little audience, compared to those who talk for the sake of talking.
