After so long without writing a single word and just uttering them I almost feel as if I had lost the ability to write
(countless are the writers and composers and other creative professionals that stressed the importance not only of being earnest but of creating everyday even f it was a style exercise alone as if by repetition the muscles and other bodily parts would be more trained to perform an operation)
. I feel like my fingers move not as swiftly as I wanted, as if my physical part was not apt to adjust to the metaphysical one as so many times they were synchronized. Speaking/talking and thinking was the way of the last month
(conveying ideas even if for myself whilst walking the lonely and rather tough streets. many times i felt like sadness only to dwell on pessoa's i feel like tears but that is just the way elation comes to me as a sad stoic momentum)
, as was writing and thinking the previous twelve to twenty four with due intermissions. It is fascinating
(for me at least)
how the mind works, how it trains itself to part from its physical counterpart to the point where it runs almost independently.
It is true that we create according to some medium
(i guess examples to illustrate this statement are needed not for it is quite straight forward to understand my ideas for i share the same disregard plato and nietzsche had for opinions)
and even if creation is an act for ourselves we cannot avoid the medium we are creating for.
The last days creation slipped my mind for trivialities became my only reality. There was no medium and finally when it came dawning, first came verbally than thoughtfully. And now, I am trying, once more, to balance and equate the speed of thought and the velocity of writing.
(countless are the writers and composers and other creative professionals that stressed the importance not only of being earnest but of creating everyday even f it was a style exercise alone as if by repetition the muscles and other bodily parts would be more trained to perform an operation)
. I feel like my fingers move not as swiftly as I wanted, as if my physical part was not apt to adjust to the metaphysical one as so many times they were synchronized. Speaking/talking and thinking was the way of the last month
(conveying ideas even if for myself whilst walking the lonely and rather tough streets. many times i felt like sadness only to dwell on pessoa's i feel like tears but that is just the way elation comes to me as a sad stoic momentum)
, as was writing and thinking the previous twelve to twenty four with due intermissions. It is fascinating
(for me at least)
how the mind works, how it trains itself to part from its physical counterpart to the point where it runs almost independently.
It is true that we create according to some medium
(i guess examples to illustrate this statement are needed not for it is quite straight forward to understand my ideas for i share the same disregard plato and nietzsche had for opinions)
and even if creation is an act for ourselves we cannot avoid the medium we are creating for.
The last days creation slipped my mind for trivialities became my only reality. There was no medium and finally when it came dawning, first came verbally than thoughtfully. And now, I am trying, once more, to balance and equate the speed of thought and the velocity of writing.
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