In my life I have always lamented that I could grasp the feeling of a dying person while writing. To write as if you will die as soon as you put the last point. But such a feeling was not within reach and at such ease, for life is a match for death, and it could not allow a being who is still breathing, regardless of the severity of his despair, to reach such pure darkness.
Life must leave a small bud of hope in the human heart: to prevent it from decay permanently. It is an invisible antibacterial: sort of delusional bacteria. Then suddenly from the sky of my life these little thoughts about writing dissipated. One cold winter evening while I was on my way to deserting and have some walk, which I tried to write through too, but without much luck, I stumbled into a brutal one once, she always saw me with handbook, she was lying on the side of the road, laughing a lot and then suddenly silence like a fake moment then she said to me: “Writing is just a modest hall for practicing sorcery, not a machine to make life, you idiot!”
And so, I live my life today like someone trying to blow a flower’s soul into the body of a chicken. And who knows which hole I will stumble upon tomorrow morning. The paths are very mysterious and their lamps are a theatrical trick.