Can you write something so deeply sensible that it touches me?

No, it depends on many factors, but an attempt ‘ or old ‘, who knows.Here is a piece that I wrote a while ago.

The texture was rough.The smell was. It was heavy. Heavier than I remembered. I had fixed it before. Years ago, when it still looked unhurlied. When it was still new. Or as good as. It was already second hand. The tension took possession of me. The memories caused it to feel like I was standing on the door with my hand to the room, that moment of Christmas morning. That chunk in my throat, banging my heart, hoping for beautiful gifts, under an even dark Christmas tree. I did it open. Nothing. The first page was empty, as with many books, and so in many lives. Then the title page. The name in beautiful curly letters printed in the paper. Not like the present print, where it was, no, the shiny ink had left an impression in the paper. The first chapter was about a life that might have existed, perhaps not really, but what did that matter. The wrinkled pages talked about it as if it happened here and now and I wasn’t really here. I slipped through the moments, as my eyes sucked up the contrasts of the pages. The book, the text, the story, they were there, but the magic did all his work. I pushed my glasses slightly higher on my nose, while I, he, had to resist the gripping emotions. Emotions that I felt, as if the letters only made words that meant something by me, the reader. The story did not exist, until I touched it, until I made it. But somehow it tickled the feeling. This was not me. I was only an observer of a world where everything could be. The dragon, the Talking Mouse, the Magic stone, everything could and that made it, however. Was I the now that illustrated everything, in my mind, or was it the story that the images pulled to me? Greedily I read further, the friends he had, were mine, if only for awhile. His choices were mine. He slept on the ground in the forest, where I would not have made an eye close. Yet it was about me. About who I could be. He had pain and I wanted to imagine that pain. I grabbed my cup. My coffee was cold. It didn’t matter to me. I had to help him. If I were to reach the end of the story, he would do that too. If he kept running enough and would not die sudden death, like so many heroes in my world, I would also save the end of the story. I felt the end approaching. As at the end of a lifetime, I saw the void of the last page arriving with the thinning of the pile of paper that was left over. Every page was a moment, sometimes two, sometimes a year. It did not give. I knew it came. My heart pounded. What did I miss? Did I understand everything well? Would I be satisfied with the outcome when the moment was there? As this life ended. Could I still steal a moment more in this voyeuristic relationship? I actually knew it already. He was on. His dearest friends were still over. I wanted to shout him further, but the room was empty, next to me and the cat. She looked at me, the cat. Her head straight and her eyes pinched in a ratio of ‘ Don’t dare ‘. I read the words but wanted to quit. For a few more pages were left and I did not want to lose it. I wanted to run further, that warm hand of the girl he had met does not get rid of. Would they get children? Would she also be just before the end, my, life disappear? The car came out of nowhere. The men who were stepping out looked threatening. I wanted to get away, but the words flowed, they held me tight. The door was kicked in and the crackling did shake the house. Cries and pounding footsteps. Not long. It was the last page. The door of the room flew open and the violence of the movements did not fall for the pain that ensued. Why now, so close to the end? Why should the rest be denied? It was so unfair. Books heard to end well, lives too. The book touched the ground with a vouchers. The sound of the rustling of the pages fell into nothing. The cat had made itself out of the feet. While the bruised cover fell open on the ground, the last page was visible, while a foot smeared and wrinkled the paper. The end.

In My early years I wanted to make myself wise that writing was not difficult:

He came running out of a shadowy alley.

View switches to where he came from.Silhouette in stark contrast with the lights of the shops, and busy traffic.

He looks over his shoulder into the alley.Haggard. Wild. He turns left. Runs on.

View switches to shop window across the street.

Vision blurred.Rain streams down. Damn this weather.

Headlights dip, car makes crash stop.He gets to his feet, looks around him for other obstacles in his path, and runs toward you. Car accelerates, arm sticking out window, shaking fist.

Hands cupped on window pane.Face/eyes. Eyes looking in. Seeking… Finding.. Looking at you.

View switches.Down the road, near phone booth. Peering around Phone booth.

He runs toward the phone booth.Deliberate. Relentless.

View switches back to street-side of the alley.Slowly backing up into the darkness.

Turn Around”, voice.Unpleasant. “You’re too late now. You’ve already shaped me in your mind “, gloating voice?

I am your worst nightmare.In essence you might say I just now committed nothing short of rape “. Voice. Voice? Definitively gloating.

Think about what I look like.Not a pretty sight huh? Well, better get used to it. I am in your mind from now on. ” Voice takes on more body.

I am undetectable.I am a virus. Unkillable, growing every time you think about me. Where I come from is inconsequential. I am. Written down by someone in whose mind I might have spawned. Might have. “

View switches.Zooms in. Eyes. Lashes, freckles, wrinkles. Mad stare.

You’re getting it slowly, aren’t You?You can’t stop now and you know it “.

Although I have no body, I live.I move. I devour. I Procreate! ” Cackle. Loud at first, fading..

I am lodged in your brain.You are after all just another reader. Gullible. Looking for another affirmation of your “Intellect”, huh? Well, you let your guard down. “

I’m in your brain.I Procreate! You will speak about me to someone else, perhaps even show this page to another sad wretch. Good! The more, the better. “

View starts to zoom out.Yes. Hate me. Hate me well. Hate is my strength! “

He runs toward the street.Silhouette against the lights in the street. Looks over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Read It again! “

\X03 漏 2003 Leo Schouten

… Now I know better, so to answer your question: probably not.

Sometimes, I flee away from time

Until I pass the time,

And the Time Me is

And I have become the time

And there is no more time.

And we have all the time of the world.

I miss you, Pappa.

Are you worth it?


Find your inner love and when you have found it.Share it with your world around you

I do not, but this essay on communication with young children about perilous subjects has touched me deeply, it is in English, the writer, a female internist, told about when she was 44 years old she was under the shower a lump in her chest Felt, and there it did not leave to investigate: it turned out to be breast cancer stage I.She describes how she told her 8-year-old daughter and 11-year-old son: Open, honest, not telling too much, but just letting them come up with their questions, to which she could go on, and how surprisingly “mature” these young children responded to it, the youngest Daughter who after being obtained from the terror continued to approach her afterwards very sweet and caring see HTTP://ASCOPUBS.ORG/DOI/FULL/10.

Very lezenworthy!

I have written poems in English in the past, of which people told me that it touched them.However, I cannot do this on the spot

Being something is an inrecognition of something.

Source (Ode to be)

I cloak myself with
\Xa0radius through her as herself
\Xa0and be seen as self in self

I let myself go in infinity
\Xa0stand in freedom
\Xa0blend in Happiness
\xa0if I’m countersink in gladness

I am my own light
\Xa0my own Eye
\Xa0my own ear
\Xa0my own Skin

I let me go
\xa0In See, hear, feel and taste
\Xa0it will all not have to
\Xa0but have fun in this entertainment

I play myself
\Xa0with Myself
\Xa0i am Myself
\Xa0and Love Myself

I am my own light
\Xa0my own centroid
\Xa0on which the light
\Xa0is leaning

I let me go
\Xa0i Let me come
\Xa0stream by you
\Xa0the Sea, the trees

I am all I am
\xa0In Infinite Joy
\xa0In desire to be myself
\xa0Te streams
\Xa0to come up

I am you and Me
\xa0In Watch and Dream

In Love I am all
\xa0In Truth I am nothing
\Xa0i am perfectly understandable
\Xa0and am Totally not

Do you now know who I am
\Xa0a picture, sound or voice
\Xa0am I storming
\Xa0or Dwell
\Xa0or am I both
\Xa0not understood

I let me come
\Xa0i Let Me Go
\Xa0hear me Come
\Xa0i will be there.

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