Scrivere gli toglieva l’soul. Era come mettere un punto nella sua life.
After he had done, He had to take a break, shake off that sense of emptiness that left him: as if the ink take away something he. Tornare a life, lift your eyes, remove the pen from the paper. Yup, from the sheet; because the thoughts per lui scorrevano meglio su un foglio, compared to the pounding rhythm of the keyboard: all keys have the same sound, always the same: he could not bear.
For him, writing was the pace, harmony, flow. Feel the flow of the pen on the paper, let it slip, jam. Feel that the pen does not slip more, and then resume its run, facendosi trascinare dai suoi thoughts. That paper now has a part of him. Writing was a way to be wrong: about life non glielo permetteva. It was like something take off, something that was in and that would have come out.
Dreams. Forse solo dreams.
He loved and hated and then loved and then hated, one thousand times: He had preferred the tumult resignation, il corpo all’soul, la certezza alla search, about war all’indifferenza; then peace, release.
The life che riprende, about life che quel foglio gli aveva preso, gliel’ha restituita molto più bella.
The right way to proceed by itself or be conducted by another in things d 'love it's this one:He is taking its cue from the things belle down here, in order to reach the Splendid, rise more and more,as proceeding in steps, from a single body beautiful a due, and from two to all bodies clear, and from all the bodies clear all belle human activities, and from these to the belle knowledge, and knowledge proceed until it is reached to that knowledge that is knowledge of nothing but the Splendid same, so it is, coming to an end, know what is the beautiful in sé.(5)
see you soon…