Ever since I can remember stories have been holding me together. Wether in the form of small plots or entire novels I would create for myself, mere day dreams or elaborated fantasies, there has been a world inside of me with varying levels of importance depending on how much I’ve needed it to survive.
The first elaborated story I remember writing was some sort of foundational myth with gods and wars and Creation, and it all resumed in the Universe creating me and my mother. I was 6 or 7 and have no idea where my story went. But though the imagination has stopped at times, the writing has been a continuum. My narrative certainly became scarce when my adoration for literature grew more and more, making me realize I had no job competing with my idols; however, the physical action of the writing in itself gives me a sutil pleasure I’m not sure I can effectively describe.
The futile action of holding and using any kind writing device makes my heart beat in a different way. It can be a pen, marker, preferably a pencil, and even a keyboard… anything goes; and when I’m feeling low, the very words that are ripped out of me through the chosen item seem to have a life of their own. The therapeutic sound and the feel of the tip of the pencil sliding rhythmically as I write, or the touch of my fingers dancing through the keyboard making what to me sounds like music, is sometimes good enough to uncover and free whatever demons have been feasting on me.
The thing is, those are the exact kind of writings I seem to be unable of sharing because they expose me in the deepest way. That’s also the reason why I think most of my idols were not only amazing writers but absolute heroes, because they were brave enough to share themselves and their inner world with outsiders, with strangers who might praise on their work and whom’d tear it apart in a second. As for me, I think I might be something of a Gollum-like writer, holding my precious close to my heart while hiding it in deep dark caverns that no one should ever find.
Aaanyhow, that’s the reason why my attempt of a blog wasn’t updated lately, and so before this turned out to be just another thing I started and never saw through, I thought I should write about NOT writing, well, at least not writing for anyone else except me.
And my three faithful readers might be asking just exactly what has gotten me off my blogger mood in the past few days. Well, to keep with my Lord of the Rings analogy let me just say that I feel like the war against the Dark Lord has just been lost. No one came in our help and we were simply outnumbered. As I see it, Mexico has been lost to Mordor and we are just gonna have to learn to live under the regime of dark wizards and their orcs, while knowing we had the chance to end it all for good and we decided not to.
Election day came and went, and after the electoral prosecutor’s office has basically declared that anything goes and nothing’s gonna be made about it, Mexico’s gonna have to put up with a president 60% of mexican voters did not choose. A man accused of murder, a proven repressor, with no political career and who could not mention 3 books read by him, is going to rule over me, woohoo!
Sure, AMLO is a bad looser, if it means not putting up with fraud and resisting an election which was bought vote by vote. Being a “good” looser would then mean to act as the female PAN candidate, who recognized her loss with only 2% of the votes accounted for and who has not spoken a word against the proven vote-buying and constraint.
Ha, I think I managed to trick myself, started talking about me and my demons, ended up talking about my country’s demons… guess mine have locked themselves up for the night, and I’m gonna let them tuck me in ’cause I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and so does Mr. Sylvestre Bombon, who left the realm of the awake a while ago.