It's been days since I can't write anything, not even a sentence, absolutely nothing, everything is still the same, I'm still in the same apartment, alone with the same cat, eating the same food, seeing and talking to the same people, taking the same things, using the same drugs, the same love situation, so why don't letters flow from me, I wake up at 3:45 a.m. like every morning without fail since 10 years ago that chronic insomnia attacks me. I wake up at 3:45 a.m. like every morning without fail since 10 years ago that chronic insomnia attacks me, it's the time of the day or night or early morning (it doesn't matter) when I write better, I get out of bed, walk to the living room, pour myself some whiskey with ice, take out my cigarettes, sit down on the couch, light up my cigarettes and go back to work, I sit on the sofa I turn on the computer and I stand in front of the screen that illuminates me with its white light waiting for me to start to get something out of me like writing to a dead person or to the one who swore me eternal love and left or to the woman I love more than anyone and I change me for something better (at her discretion) or to the French cat or to the woman who became my muse and I write her poems but something happens that nothing comes out I just keep watching trying to write something..........a word............ i don't like it........... i delete it........... i write two or three more words again trying to form a sentence.......... i'm not convinced i delete it........... i think about who or what i should write about.......... i light another cigarette, i look out the window and everything is lonely, there is nothing outside as well as in my head, now there is nothing, there is no idea it is empty, i take a drink from my glass i go back to my computer and i try again...........I should write about me, something like a cover letter.............. nobody is interested in that......... people like to read about tragedies of others or frustrated loves to feel identified............. another cigarette and the glass of whiskey ended up diluting with the ice, I hear the sound of the first birds, I realize that it's starting to dawn and I didn't achieve my goal of writing one more night lost in the nothingness.
But in the end I realize that I wrote something.......esto, garbage at the end of the day, but I wrote something.
Photographers: Franco Carino Zanotti
I am not a writer, nor do I pretend to be one. I am a lover of letters and a storyteller. “I write from the deepest recesses of my mind” Chilango born in the north of the city and raised in the east, who escaped to the provinces and has no fixed direction.