On writing

The tide rises. A wave crashes behind the eyes; hidden streams flow down from the synapses, along the arms, crossing the narrow passage of the wrists and eventually ending up in the hands, finding a way out through the fingertips.
That's my experience of writing, an ebb and flow, a primitive energy triggered somewhere, in a undefined point between the stomach and the brain that immediately goes off, expanding at the speed of light all along the whole body, heating up limbs, mouth, head and loin. That's the so-called inspiration, I suppose.

Of course, this is just the beginning, the primal spark that gives some sense to the action of putting words on paper, one after another, line after line. Writing can be a boring activity, sometimes. Erasing and changing position to the words, paying attention to the repetitions, correcting verbs, avoiding typographical error and chasing synonyms, in order of trying to give a integrated sense to a bunch of disconnected sentences.
A reason is necessary to justify such a secretary-type work.
Mine one lies in that very first moment, when, somehow, fragments of the world require to be transposed into lines. When they ask for a ink portrait made of words. If the outcome is good or bad doesn't matter now, that's a judgement that comes in a later stage. No god has time to express a trustworthy opinion about a world, while he's engaged in creating it.

Where does this inspiration come from, then? Hard question to answer. It can grow out of a sudden thought that crosses the mind or from a deep reflection that gets to a conclusion; it arises from a tiny detail that catches the eye or from a usual situation, that unexpectedly shows a before unnoticed side. It takes root into the image of a reader that in a later time may - I hope - glimpse a reflection of that same flame that for a moment ignited body and mind, giving birth to some words. The silent reader to whom these words are dedicated now.