The Storm

(From “A Tempestade”, in Ebrael.)

Your life has been pretty good, as if it was rest and fresh water. You go out for working, wearing your ever lined suit (or not), drive your car along the highway, with no hurry. You’re not hasty, since, apparently, all is right.

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Why do I write?

Why do I write?

Ebrael

(Ou, Por que eu escrevo?)

Writing is not a craft, but an attempt, sometimes useless, to dispel the fear of a sudden annihilation. We tried to make evergreen those ideas expressed by the mouth and on paper, both these always insufficient and finite means. Christ said: “The mouth speaks what overflows in the Heart.” I would say more: when the mouth becomes obsolete, the stones and the letters, all, take the feature of our deepest feelings.

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