why do I write

by walterdoege

I don’t know…as a writer I have nothing to say…in this time of my life I write more than I read…I guess my writing is a daily trial for dialogue, a daily trial of elaboration of living and finitude…surrounding the finitude, the last goodbye…utmost, a daily trial of remebering myself…and yourself…one thing is close to the other…me and you…you read what I write…at a point there’s occurs the writing is being reading…this flash instant is loving…an untouchable and unique instant…I read a lot too, but writing is almost a need…to share…my feelings…aloneness is not good…in my walk so lonely, I reach my solitude after any little effort of writing something…I’ve read yesterday the solely romance book of my grandfather named ‘night of kings’…he died young…his book was always an inspiration to me, as the tales and stories my mother and my grandmother read for me…I miss all this…perhaps I write also for remembering and honoring my roots