Mais do mesmo, in English.
I’ve got to write! I’ve got to write about everything that I feel and do! I’ve just got to write. I’ve got to write without thinking, just let the words flow from my head to the paper, or the screen, or wherever my canvas is. I’m a fucking writer. I was born a writer and I’ve gotta take it for myself, I’ve gotta make it mine, because it’s always been my own thing.
I’ve learned to speak very young. I was just 9 months when I uttered my first words, at least that’s what my parents proudly tell everybody, including me. I’ve learned how to read when I was six, two weeks after I started school. I’ve always loved to write!
When I write I feel like I’m myself. Writing is my home, my shelter. A writer is who I really am.
I wonder why I’m so afraid of giving in to my writing. Why is it so hard to just be who we really are?
I learn languages quickly, I just get the systems. I easily understand how they work, what things mean. I fucking love languages. I like to communicate, I like to feel like I can make my beliefs come across and make the world a better place. Maybe, I’m just naive, but I like that side of me.
My deepest fears and insecurities get sorted out through my writing. How would I ever have gotten through my teenage years if I hadn’t had my writing to comfort me?
I love stories! I love to hear people telling me about their lives. I love their problems and feelings and experiences. I love to get them, to get to know who they really are.
Lots of things inspire me. The taste of coffee, the looseness of beer, the light of the day, the city around me, depression, loneliness, anxiety, insecurity; all these things just make a thousand ideas pop on my mind.
I live with a thousand characters: the drug addict who does it all, the fearful innocent girl who risks nothing, the guy who’s afraid of his masculinity, the talented artist wasted, the actor who doesn’t act, the bad friend, the scared mother, the reckless father, the abused boyfriend, the demotivated teacher, the cat lady, the Casanova. All of these people occupy the few square meters of my one-bedroom-apartment. We are roommates. Why do I struggle so much to move them out of my mind, out of my space? Why don’t I just give them a space of their own?
I gotta let go. I gotta free my characters, I gotta set them free into my pages, into my work. I gotta release them from this prison that I’ve created for myself. I gotta let out what’s in inside, what is hidden, what’s living within me. Those lives deserve a home, I gotta free them, let them, let them be judged.
I’m a fucking writer. Does it really matter if I’m good or bad? Is it really important, if when I feel the freest is when my fingers are moving fast through the keyboard creating things? It just doesn’t matter if I am good or bad, it just matters that this who I am, this is me, and I gotta set myself free!