Blank

What is there still to write when everything seems to have already been written? Every words, every sentences, every aspect of every single human being alive or dead have been put on a sheet of paper, on computer screen, on the tiny screen of a mobile phone.

So, what is left for us, poor writers? White, a white piece of paper, that desperately awaits for some black ink on it. Anything that breaks it immaculacy. Write, draw, paint! Do something, that white surface drives me crazy. I can't help it. When I have nothing to put on this poor old sheet of paper, I feel bad. Sad. Mad.

I drink until I found what to write or until I forget what I wanted to do with that papery area. That's not the good part of me, because I finally don't write. When I don't write, nothing goes better. Everything is going to be the same when I wake up, but with an headache.

When I finally write something, it sometimes is already too late. What did I want to build up with my words? A book, a novel or just a castle to protect myself from the outside. Every word is a little stone I add to the wall I make to keep the bad things away. I don't like the exterior world, nor the other peoples, not even myself.