Writing is caress for my soul and sensuality for my senses.
If you have ever been to the point where your whole being was transported into the words you put down on paper, you’ll never be whole again without the exercise of writing. There have been days and days, too long and too narrow, in which I could not write. And there is this moment, when I feel that unless I write, I shall suffocate… I miss writing every single day I believe.
There are flashes of experiences I cherish and I do not have either the time, or the piece of mind to share. Like this very early morning last week, when I was wasted of my worries, and I was given a moment of clearness, of relief, a tap on the shoulder from above. I don’t even remember now where I was heading to, but I remember the heavy and bitter feelings I was carrying. Just at the metro, at the margin of the escalator that was going down, a mother was holding a stroller with her left hand and dragging desperately a small baby with her right hand in the attempt of stopping him not to fall down the stairs. The baby had slipped and fallen down. It was a fraction of a second. A few moments later I was holding the baby into my arms; she was a sweet little girl, she must have been around one year old, or not even. We met downstairs, me the little girl and her mother. I kneeled to comfort both the child and the mother, she kneeled as well and took her girls into hers arms and only then her eyes flooded with tears. She had very beautiful light green eyes.
That was it, that fraction of a second. A gift I was given that morning to help me move on. I still feel the little girl into my arms, I still see her mother’s eyes. One day I’ll be doing only this: writing. For a couple of years, a small little white house by the ocean, I, my notebook and my memories of life.