"I do not want to write, and then it is difficult to unite the will to live with the desire to write"
A. Chekhov (to Alexander Chekhov)
Before leaving, one thing I had been more or less certain, that to overcome long evenings alone, in a place that I hardly had to call home during those months away from my customers closing-time coffee I would write.
Once again I had to deal with feelings and behaviors that, in spite of the expectations made it more likely that I could myself, left me slightly stunned, standing there in silence, watching them act, with a funny expression on his face waiting.
not a word I wrote then. After some resistance the first few weeks, I accepted the fact, helping to give him a kind of dignity with maximum explained that it would be difficult sit down and challenge the entire history of pencil if you wanted to talk to you was still alive, me.
Again, on pelle.Ancora once had to deal with emotions that they could not forget from where you could not take away immediata.Ancora once fought hard against what seemed inevitable, convinced that all stories go ro crystallized, cool spot.
I began to see, slowly, because I'm wrong and after some time I ventured to leave the luxury of picking and andare.Mollai scrissi.Senza no second thoughts, without guilt.
was absolutely no chance that I began to do a few days of the end, when I started, quietly, to leave all I found.
But then I did not explained very well and I was just afraid of losing tutto.Perchè you can not grab things at the moment?
Today it seems so obvious fear of missing out on anything if the only desire was that I felt that nothing, absolutely nothing, I remained on the skin ... lucky you simply change your mind.
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