Random thoughts pretending to be deep - 2

Stories are everywhere.
They're one of the commonest materials in the world: they're blended in with the asphalt of the roads; they walk along with cats and stand beside signposts. Old tales sneak through the circles of the trees and heaps of stories are simply stacked behind the eyes of any person walking on a crowded street. The hard job is to get hold of the right glasses to identify them, to discover where the centre is, and to find a suitable hoe to dig them out.

A call

Gimme sentences.
Or words, letters, just commas if you prefer. Significant or not, it doesn't matter that much. I love them. That's the fuel of some engine hidden somewhere, they're the crumbs that help in tracking the way. Don't let that string come loose, its faint pull contributes in keeping this man standing. And in mining words out, in order to pile them up here. Carry on whispering on that red lawn of yours: each sound a thought, each thought a crumb, each crumb a step. Don't let me get lost, I'm just over the fence.
You're not the only addicted one.

The waking up

On certain days the road calls stronger.

It's the travel bug that wakes up and starts digging tunnels deep inside the head.
The wanderlust grows more strong and maps increase their power of attraction, while memories of old trips and almost forgotten travel mates come to the surface of the mind. New invisible strings start stretching across oceans and continents, pulling you towards countries to which you've never paid any attention before. Curiosity blossoms and a kind of rough impatience falls on you, together with an annoying feeling of being in the wrong place, while lots of stuff is happening somewhere else.

In those days the eagerness of giving up and leaving everything behind becomes almost overwhelming: the daily routine has no chance against the promise hidden inside a ticket.
Discovering a new flavour; peeking through the outworn curtains of a clattering bus; chatting with someone you'll never meet again - without even asking the name - outside of a service station in the middle of the night. Small events, microscopic details which could be hardly noticed in the usual days become everything during travel time.

"Far away" is always an attractive idea. And a good concept to keep in mind. It's useful to remember that here-and-now is never the only available choice. It helps in giving back to the reality its right weight. The greatness of the world is a good life buoy: it helps in keeping people safe and sane.

Her place is red.
I wandered a lot before getting back there.
Few ornaments, just a bare tree.
It looks like a new challenge.
(the place, not the tree)
We are both communicators.
Different ways. Kind of known feelings.
Reading like interpreting a treasure map.
Writing like throwing bottles into the sea.
Often thinking about her.
And, by the way, "work out" are two words.
(smile)

Random thoughts pretending to be deep - 1

Being considered a leader, without ever having asked for that, it's kind of annoying. Power is power, they say. A shepherd's never alone and free, I reply. Leadership is not a jewel which can be worn every day. It gets stupid. It becomes tiring. And worn out.

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.

Notice to passers-by

Don't waste your time trying to give meaning to the posts placed on this page. They're neither chronicle nor stories. They're a mixture of both, but don't be mistaken thinking that they can be read by anyone just because available on the internet, on the public square. To be encrypted they need a code, it's a kind of game. Those words are not written for any reader. This show takes place just for few eyes.
Goodbye.

Behind the ancient walls

Dubrovnik, Croatia. It gotta be a good place.
A fortress on the sea, stone-paved streets, wheelbarrows falling from above.
Wheelbarrows?
Oh, no, that's another story.

Again. Dubrovnik, Croatia.
They filmed Game of Thrones here. King's Landing, to be precise. It's supposed to be a good place: warm climate, gentle wind, comfortable stones. The ideal environment for lizards. Also for big ones: there's stones of any size, here.
It seemed to be easy: getting there; catching the monster; coming back home; packing it up and putting it into the freezer, ready for the right moment. Or maybe in the oven. I'm not quite sure which is the best way to conserve a dragon. To conserve it alive, I mean.
However, it wasn't as easy as I thought.

Some drawbacks hindered my pace. Evil people. Nasty, rude and presumptuous. Villains. Finnish. It had been a three days battle, a real culture clash. Struggling on points of view, interpretations and conceptions separated by much more than few thousands of kilometres. European Projects are much more demanding than how I'd ever supposed.

And Finnish girls are much more ugly than how I'd ever thought Scandinavian gals could be (don't tell 'em this, please) (in case you're a Finnish girl I'm joking, of course) (partially).
I think I eventually won the battle, though I'm not completely sure of that. This must also be a matter of interpretation, I guess. And I discovered that attending meetings with people from different countries doesn't really improve my view of the world. But, ok, this is definitely another story.

Dubrovnik, Croatia. Crystal clear water, nice sea-view restaurants, very well prepared tour guides. And no dragon on sight, not even a tiny little one. Just some frogs with bunny ears, those deplorable beasts. Quite useless, I'd say.
The hunting continues.