Creativity is a complex process: it seems that one has the obligation to sit down in front of a keyboard and go to work, leaving loose angels and demons who, without dreadlocks or piercings, squat and dirty the corners of their soul. Myself, alone in my kitchen, and bored in front of the screen, I take the bland decision to pound some words with violence, without having any idea what to say.
I am a contemporary man.
I do not know if it happens to me alone ... I think it happens a little to everyone. It turns out that time passes, the body gets old and on any given day, we choose to look at ourselves in the mirror without recognizing the panofi fofisano that we see in the reflection. What happened to the dreamer? Where is the lion that was going to eat the world? They are common questions.
In my case, fond of writing, I see creative thoughts and waves, disappearing into a sea of emptiness and banal thoughts. My previous concerns, social justice, nature, religion and metaphysics ... have given way to a methodical pragmatism of the most boring, typical of the comfortable mentality of the petty bourgeois.
I miss a bit of epic; I need to feel alive.
Humor, companion of intelligence, is also diminishing as we slide towards the abyss, as creative thoughts die and the mere administration of things is born. The vital tedium earns audience points, and reality becomes a blue zone where you leave your ticket.
You always think it could be worse ... but you can not think of how.
As all this happens, not even one is capable of torture. The space that previously occupied the torment, is occupied today by a shabby nihilism, stripped of blood and desire with which the idiots of the 19th century defended this idea.
We suppose that it is the evil of an epoch: or perhaps the evil of a body.