On A Rainbow of Confusion, or A Little Dream of Creativity

For a long time in my short life, I have seen the act of writing as something that goes beyond simple escape (although this is also a way of escaping) — writing has been the starting point for letting my mind experience journeys that otherwise, if I didn’t allow it to do so, it’d keep pushing and pressuring me to set it free. It is different from escaping, writing has been uniting the will to be free with the need to feel free. It is more than wanting what I have to say through words to be recorded for eternety; at least for the moment, what I want the most is to make peace with words, stop fighting with them and ask for a better understanding of my moments of confusion. For the time being, I want to build my relationship with them, gradually, so that they grow in and out of me, become independent and, perhaps one day, grandiose.

Lately, I dedicate myself to this art in a way that is completely focused on the flow of consciousness, I don’t follow rules or standards, I do not care about what is going to come out of my mind, which is why I have to live well with words: I simply allow the knowledge I acquire in my routine, all of it, to be transmitted from my hands to this white document in the notebook, and I am hopeful that something makes sense of it all. I was once struck by a book that dealt with literary criticism of this style of writing, the stream of consciousness. It is at least peculiar that one wants to justify free writing, to study it, and to formalize its patterns. Patterns, for those who have the act of writing as a psychological imposition, do not exist. And by psychological imposition, I mean the need for expression, whatever that is, that is infiltrated in the deepest layer of our beings, disturbing us while we do not put it out.

I have colored visions of what I write, especially of these little essays. I write, read them again twice, and by the end of the second reading, I see the whole set of text in certain colors. It always depends on how the writing makes me feel, and this is what fascinates me the most — I never know what to expect as a result of my writing. I believe that every true writer is like this, living constantly at the mercy of the surprises that words cause them, but generally, as we write, we have a generic idea of ​​what will come of it all. It is different, however, when the only general idea we have is that in one way or another we’ll just write something, without actually knowing what will come out of it all. It is a mixture of confession, with jornal pieces, with pieces of written life, with our beings — writing can be thus, brilliantly dazzling, of primary colors, secondary colors and colors that we did not even know existed. It is a unique confusion, because we hate to know that we are entering it, we love to know that we are unraveling its mysteries, and we hate when all these feelings are gone.

In the metaphysical sense of the creative work we have chosen, it is as if its results, known, expected or opposed to it all, were small visible blessings that are part of the healing process of our beings in the post-moment of confusion. The discharge of our minds is important, especially, because it is a time to face our purest and truest possible ways of being. And although we can express ourselves from just one point of view, one place in existence at a time, we are able to do it several times, separately, keeping ourselves always sensitive to the implicit and explicit realities that surround us. The danger of binding ourselves to rules and expectations exists and is increasingly latent in the modern expressions under which we live in right now; I hope, therefore, that we may be able to let transcendentality stand out from fear, so that the power that still exists in creativity, of communicating with the souls of people, is of some tiny or infinite use to all of us.