I wanted to write. Sitting by my keyboard as I would by my piano, I let my fingers play to create a melody I’m not really sure about, but I trust my instincts… I guess it’s always been like that. I never forced it. It came on its own and it guided my hands. These words became my friends. I confided in them and they loved me more in return, building castles of beauty that my brain embraced every time I read them, over and over, more addicted to them as they ran like my blood through my veins and never drained.
The love I have for them cannot be explained through logic. It’s like paint under the brush of an artist. I apply my colors with the precision of an architect, letting them take shape and bring to life all the ideas stuck in my mind. I think I’m crazy, always focused on how I would talk about things, how I would describe the world surrounding me, how I would simply look at the sky and see the million rainbows that are invisible to the eyes of so many people…
My heart responds to the tempo of my imagination, singing in unison a magical song that transports not only me, but also anyone who can read. I feel so grateful for the gift I received without knowing it. I always wanted to run faster than everybody else; I guess I found a way to race at the speed of light just with the power of my words. That music sounds so soft to my ears, so balanced and so perfect, enchanting me to the point of tears. My love for them is infinite, growing stronger as I keep typing… My sorrow disappears when I write, and I forget about the solitude I never learned to live with. These words even lightened the heaviest burden I had to carry, and always took me to a better place. They will probably also save me from myself… I enjoy their company so much.
I really needed this. I know I’m an addict. Isn’t that funny? I crave my own ideas… I heard that real artists never stop creating, even when they sleep. That’s maybe why I haven’t slept so well lately. This gift has become a plight, never leaving me alone… But I can’t help it. I just love them too much to stop. I think that I’ll face death the day I won’t be able to write like that anymore, and this will be a tragic time…
I like what I composed. All these letters look so pretty. Now I can go rest… until I’ll be bothered again.
The Manicheans 