Dear readers, there was no post published last week. This time the reason was not my regular habit of appearing and disappearing, but simply that I was not inspired. I looked up the word inspiration; I even went so far as to explore its meaning and etymology. The search done in Spanish showed me its relation to the needed illumination of the soul before any act or creativity. In my case, Las Musas hadn?t shown up for their appointment with me although I was working as Picasso had suggested.
Therefore, my work focused on reading and listening to different recommendations about how to find inspiration: books on how to compose; recipes and advice on how to write; also I found a TED TALK where the speakers tell of how to overcome the fear of writing. Everything was useless.
However, I did not give up after although a lot of questions arose. I mean: why write?? What is the point in continuing to publish posts on my blog? What good is it to make such an effort? Why haven’t I stopped yet? My ego, eager to get acknowledgement, looked for answers that nobody has. Nonetheless, instead of giving in, I sat again looking for inspiration.
If ?writing is to talk to yourself?, as says one of the notes I wrote down during this process, I am sure imagination is not going to abandon me, at least for now. I must say that the search produced other results, so I learned what a micro-story is and found some examples of them. Among them there was a text written by another author and that fit perfectly with an image I had chosen a while ago to be used in a future publication. It is what I want to share with you today, dear readers. A short story filled of readings of which I am looking forward to hearing your opinions about.
Hope you enjoy the image as well as the text although it is in Spanish and write a comment about your impressions. Thank you very much for being there and I will be here next week.
Un sue?o, de Jorge Luis Borges
En un desierto lugar del Ir?n hay una no muy alta torre de piedra, sin puerta ni ventana. En la ?nica habitaci?n (cuyo piso es de tierra y que tiene la forma de c?rculo) hay una mesa de madera y un banco. En esa celda circular, un hombre que se parece a m? escribe en caracteres que no comprendo un largo poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular escribe un poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular? El proceso no tiene fin y nadie podr? leer lo que los prisioneros escriben.
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