Post by account_disabled on Dec 10, 2023 5:50:31 GMT 2
Once upon a time there was a shy writer. As a child he had begun to write stories secretly from his parents. He imagined them at school, staring into space, in the imaginary worlds that he created in his fantasy mind. At home, then, he spent entire afternoons writing them on crumpled and recycled paper, which he never let anyone read. If anyone came into his room, he was very quick to hide them and pretend to do his homework. “You were drawing, right?”, his mother always shouted at him, when she saw his rapid movements, typical of someone caught by surprise.
But the boy wasn't drawing, he was Phone Number Data writing a story. She was elsewhere, in realities far away yet close to him, where she loved to stay in his daydreams, where she could finally live his life and not that of others. And when he returned he just started again. He copied out the stories on sheets of paper which he inserted into binders and reread them several times, dreaming of publishing book after book. But those stories remained unread, except by his eyes. And over time they accumulated. The shy writer kept to himself, no one knew of his passion for writing. It was a secret that he jealously guarded, because, perhaps, the word "writer" was too big for him, an enormity that frightened him. A writer was an Alessandro Manzoni, a Luigi Pirandello, great names who were studied at school.
His name, small and insignificant and not at all musical, could not be placed alongside those names. And the stories never came to light. Time passes, schools end, others begin and the shy writer stops writing. Other thoughts in the mind of a boy who has become a man, with other worries and responsibilities. But the passion of writing is like the flame that rests silently under the ashes. It is not destined to go out and sooner or later, with the blow of the wind, it reactivates, returns to itself to burn time. And after many years, the flame returns and the shy writer begins to write again. Ideas are born in his head, an uneven mixture of experiences, readings, visions that swirl and push to come out, to find an outlet in the form of words.
But the boy wasn't drawing, he was Phone Number Data writing a story. She was elsewhere, in realities far away yet close to him, where she loved to stay in his daydreams, where she could finally live his life and not that of others. And when he returned he just started again. He copied out the stories on sheets of paper which he inserted into binders and reread them several times, dreaming of publishing book after book. But those stories remained unread, except by his eyes. And over time they accumulated. The shy writer kept to himself, no one knew of his passion for writing. It was a secret that he jealously guarded, because, perhaps, the word "writer" was too big for him, an enormity that frightened him. A writer was an Alessandro Manzoni, a Luigi Pirandello, great names who were studied at school.
His name, small and insignificant and not at all musical, could not be placed alongside those names. And the stories never came to light. Time passes, schools end, others begin and the shy writer stops writing. Other thoughts in the mind of a boy who has become a man, with other worries and responsibilities. But the passion of writing is like the flame that rests silently under the ashes. It is not destined to go out and sooner or later, with the blow of the wind, it reactivates, returns to itself to burn time. And after many years, the flame returns and the shy writer begins to write again. Ideas are born in his head, an uneven mixture of experiences, readings, visions that swirl and push to come out, to find an outlet in the form of words.