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THE HERO, THE JEALOUSY AND THE WORD - by jrqc

My words, they are like a whirlwind, uncontrollable and so capricious. Some of them i must find a way to keep them at bay, otherwise...they'll hurt someone for they are so sharp and cold at times and at others they're as if they were bathed in honey and sprinkled with nut bits, they actually feel very springy... and I miss those ones, specially when they need to be written. So I just let myself go, I let myself be drowned by them and I summerge and become their slave. They are the body of the imagination, hopeful, dull and fascinating. I guess they are the right combination as nothing should be uniformed, but rather a little of everything here and there to make and construct a perfect form. 

These words, those words, palpitating in my head, begging to be set free drill my soul and as soon as I release them, a combination of satisfaction and sadness invade my senses, simply because they shape up a dream, and in that moment they become real, they become an alternate reality of which I would sometimes love to be a part of. They are real in their own right, yes! , they are honey, they are a bit of soul, they are formed and shaped up in a fashion that only imagination in its own affable craziness and happiness can do. They exist alongside their narration, alongside what you and I see around... and oh my God, when that poem strikes up in the right spot of your heart that forms the bridge between you and the river of your tears! Isn't that just marvellous?!

I am jealous of them, I am jealous of the words constructed and shaped up in reality by those talented minds that have given us the pleasure and the unmistaken gift of their works. They penetrate the corners of my soul, and I wonder, will I ever measure up to those, to them? will I?. No. Their words go far beyond me, go even further my imagination and my process of thinking which at times is just embarrassing that I cannot even dare to even pretend to be one of them. Their words are music, they're muse, they're like Aphrodite in splendour,  i they're thought and feeling and a splash of sentiments that play music ceaselessly, as if their lives depended on it. I miss them, I miss those writers, I miss their creativity though I don't know them, but I know a bit of their soul for I have been there also, I have been inside that room, in that corner, in that rock beholding and admiring the sunset. I have been behind that bottle of wine, I have been in that hazy dream... yes, I have been there. And the only company worthy to be with are the tears, the words, the imagination and the admiration for that thing that moves and shakes the core of the heart as if it was a toy. That is the company that countless times is loyal and will stay within for longer.

I will not be like them, like those heroes of penmanship, like those who pour their soul in splashes of colours... but I will not cease writing, I cannot allow myself to do so, because if I do, I would defeat myself.

So...my love... my word, do not abandon me, do not let me succumb because without you....because without you my cup will be empty!, my rivers dry and my life dead.




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