by walterdoege

writing is an experiment too…I work with words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs…the language is not of mine…like bricks I put any word and phrase as building resources…bricks from readings, listenings, talkings…utmost I like talkings, lively dialogue, but it’s not always possible…as a writer I feel the writing as another dialogue…with you, cause I write from me to you, I don’t write for myself…when I read I read the words of a foreigner, for a while I get theses words as mine, as a reader the words of the foreigner, I mean the writer, but the same does occur when I write…as I feel as a writer like another foreigner…as a writer I am myself and all my readings and talkings…language is not my invention…what can be my own is the way I place any word…any sentiment, any thinking…but I write with almost no thinking…also, I feel my writring as a form to continue through the blancks, the forgetness, the discontinuity of the life flowing, the time flowing…perhaps a trial against the forgetness, the yesterday remembrance, the past experience…perhaps the past does exist only today…as sentiment, as remembrances, and future is a will of tomorrows…today is a wish of being a good day and today is all I have…today I live the day, the sunlight, waiting the moon and her sparkling joy…fairy nights, magic nights…I see the sky at night for see the stars and the moon and sense the lasting sentiment of longing to whole life…my life is part of whole life…at night even the painful sentiment rest, the searching for something I don’t know, rest…the troubles of the day and even the goods of the sunlight are transformed through the crucible in a longing sentiment of being close to the moon…this writing trial is a day trial of living well…but at night the moonlight turn on joy all pain and woe bringing a serene mind to my soul, so, I can see the day at night…I can feel the day ad hoc