LET IN RAIN

There will be no painting if the artist doesn't take his brush and drag it across the canvas. There will be no poem or story or novel if the writer doesn't put pen to paper. There is no more difficult challenge than sitting down and doing it.

I wish I had one of those callings that required me to write eight hours a day in order to maintain my sanity. I am not without discipline, but I don't have the spirit of a missionary who wishes to enlighten the world and dedicates his life to a precise objective.

I don't write with a fervor because I am not part of any crusade. I have few beliefs. I believe that when I'm dead, I'm dead. I am not suppurating with passion. I do succumb to cheap thrills, but I have paid a high price for my excesses.

I want to write about anonymity, infinity, eternity and futility. Dark clouds hang over me. Thankfully, I love the rain. My own sorrows are washed away by my own sorrows. I am a self-fulfilling prophecy. I want nothing and in the end I will have nothing.