The girl with a red typewriter

There was a time when nothing could be written down. This went on for a couple of years.

It was only happening those times when was a physical need. Throwing out pains, loves and maybe calamities.

All at once.

A full night asleep, staring at the moon and crying my soul out. Two old lovers meeting again after long time they have been apart.

Before that, I was the kid who was always with a pen and a piece of paper in my hand.

Sometimes my imagination was dressing a character of a story that I had just read in the comics.

Taking my agenda and give birth to my stories. That was all I wanted to do.

” When I will grow up I will be a writer ”

I was already alone with my red typewriter and I still had to figure where to leave accents on Italian words.

I had always something to say, unanswered questions to bother everybody with. A true pain in the butt.

When I grew older I started thinking I wanted to be a journalist. Journalists make money. Writers don’t.

I tried and then I tried more.

I tried in Italy when I was 18 and I tried in Ireland when I was 28. The more I tried and the more I realized I don’t want to be in this madness. Since a few years I don’t even watch the news anymore. I can’t remember last time I went to buy a newspaper. I wanna hear love stories, not dry misunderstandings of a reality which is made up of whomever stands on top of the crew.

This is the effect the press had on me.

I want to say whatever I like right now, right there.

What I really enjoy is writing and I do am aware of the fact that 99% of what comes out of all this is useless. The other 1% maybe a decent try. But when I write I dive into a self-analyzing process where my feelings, thoughts and perception of reality slot into place.

The kid inside me is playing around with whatever is available to entertain myself.

I love reading today a piece of paper in order to realize that it now all seems so different.

Is still the same person writing? Was my heart really bleeding yesterday? Were these hands of mine typing on the machine?

I want to create something though. I just don’t want to spread random words on electronic pages. I know that one day probably I will be able to put together something that makes sense, at least to me.

It is so difficult to have an aerial view of my inner stories. I feel I am my own biggest enemy.

The temptation to give up and look at my pages with disgust at times it is hard to defeat.

However, I have now reached a stage of my life that I like considering a point of no return.

I made a promise to myself during these past months, when I seriously struggled in trying to understand what is in this life that I want, in order to enjoy it the most.

Travelling and experiencing the beauty is how and for which means I want to live this life.

But writing is the only thing that has the power to make me disappear. This is what I want to do whenever I have a spare moment. Whenever a thought is crossing my mind. Whenever I know I have lots to say and there is an evil voice in my head saying there’s no need to grab that laptop and staying on that chair for hours – your words are just crap, nonsense crap.

You just shut the fuck up, I grab the fucking chair and I sit for writing.

Meet me later at the bar. I am the girl with a red typewriter.



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