The melody flowed from the recorder like a thin mist, filling the corners of the room, stretching out to become a wall protecting me from the world’s clamor. A silence… a poetic silence, almost frightening. The music here wasn’t just sound, but fantastical worlds opening their doors to me, inviting me in, yet my feet remained rooted to the spot in this chair.
I gaze out from the balcony; the view is so captivating that writing about it would seem inadequate. I sip from my cup of tea, its warmth touching my throat, but it never reaches that cold spot in my soul.
I look at the papers… no, I steal glances at them fearfully. I fear their stark whiteness, as if they were a mirror that would reveal to me what I do not want to face.
And the pen! That pen lying there seems to me like a knight waiting for the signal to begin, to conquer the geography of the paper, and draw maps of the sighs and secrets that filled my chest.
Why can’t my hand move?
I feel a surge of enthusiasm, but it’s a smoldering one, like an ember beneath a thick layer of ash. My mind is ablaze with questions, racing through my thoughts like wild horses: For whom do I write in this tumultuous time? Will anyone hear the echo of my pain? And what is the point of scattering the features of these white pages if silence speaks volumes?
Those questions were not just ideas; they were constraints.
The pen did not move from its place, and the paper was still virgin, untouched by ink.
I feel the confinement of these walls, despite the vastness of the imagination they hold; therefore, there is no escape. I will leave the room to its silence, leave the pen to its bitter anticipation, and withdraw quietly like a shadow departing its place, and go out into the street… perhaps I will find there, amidst the crowd, the word that has eluded me, or glimpse in the eyes of strangers the spark that will rekindle my dormant enthusiasm.
I closed the door behind me, leaving behind that silence that almost devoured my identity.
On the street, life was playing a completely different tune; not recorded here, but the clinking of cafe glasses, fleeting laughter, and the sound of hurried footsteps that never stopped.
I walked aimlessly, my eyes scanning the faces, trying to read those “drafts” written on the foreheads of passersby.
An old man sits on a wooden bench, his eyes telling untold stories. A flower seller wipes the sweat from her brow with a patient smile. Two lovers condense all languages into a touch of their hands. A child runs after a sparrow, laughing wholeheartedly, as if he owns the universe.
Every face was a story, and every movement a line waiting to be written down.
Suddenly, the questions that had been haunting me began to fade away. The question was no longer: “Why do I write?”, but rather: “How can I remain silent in the face of all this momentum?”
I realized then that my enthusiasm hadn’t died out, but was imprisoned in the cage of idealism. I wanted to write a complete text, while life is written in half-sentences, in fleeting glances, and in the dust of the streets.
I felt a tingling in my fingers, and the joints of my hand began to long for the feel of the pen, as if my fingers had finally woken up from their coma.
The street was not a place to escape to, but rather the great inkwell into which I should dip my pen.
I turned back, but with faster steps this time. I no longer cared about the goal or the audience; all I wanted was to return to those white pages, not to admire their beauty, but to wreak beautiful havoc on them, with sighs I drew from the street pavement and the scent of impending rain.
I entered my house, and the music was still playing, but this time I didn’t stand on the balcony.
I went straight to the table, raised the pen as if I were raising a sword, and before my desire cooled, I placed the first dot on the geography of the paper…
And the floodwaters poured down.
