I was chatting when I realized that I need a coffee. I went to the kitchen and made myself the best coffee I can drink around here. Yes, I can proudly say that I am one of the best coffee makers. It’s a fresh summer night and it’s perfect for star gazing and staring at the distance from your window.
I love writing and I consider myself a writer. Since I know for myself I’m in the world of books. I started writing a few years ago. As a kid I didn’t understand writing essays in school and those classic stories all the girls had been writing. At firs my mom would read me a bedtime story every night, and as I was growing up I started reading, every night before I dozed off. Later on I started writing myself and realized that I have a unique style. I knew how to paint a picture with words and that was something I adored doing and was really proud of. Unfortunately, from all the obligations I had and have I lost it, and now I can hardly paint a picture with words. I would really like to have that skill back. It’s because we are put into a mold by the society and it’s demands. You don’t have the freedom to write all of the details you see or what you feel, and later on you become blind and mute for it. Anyhow, I still have my own spark, thoughts and style. Somehow, I always get my masterpiece out of my pinkie when needed in no time. I will try to get my brush and colors back so I can paint again. Another glamour of my possibility to paint a picture with just words is that I am a painter in real life, with real brushes and real colors. So, if I see something, I describe it and eventually I paint it. One thing which I noticed beside describing what I see and writing my thoughts is that I am probably better at writing short stories and observations instead of novels. I have an idea, I have everything prepared but when I read it I dislike it so much that I just can’t make myself reading it again. It’s like when you have a marvelous idea for a dish and you make it, it looks wonderful, but when you taste it you can’t make yourself to take another bite. I had a bad-writer period for a long time and I can compare it to a man who hasn’t gone out of the bed for months and now he is slowly trying to take insecure steps and slow, short walks. I am recovering from it though, so I hope that I will get out of it soon.
Street lights are trembling in distance. Blue train of lights is quickly disappearing on the bridge while I am impatiently waiting for another one, every day wondering which color will it be tonight. The trees of the park are making dark silhouettes and are strong contrast to the bright bridge, it’s silhouette never fails to emphasize. It’s quite late and past midnight so the other side of the river isn’t shining as much because most of the lights in people’s houses are turned off. Everyone’s sleeping. There are a few street lamps which are illuminating the parking lot. When I look through the window or generally look at a bigger picture I tend to separate it on smaller fragments and observe each very carefully. Every corner or a certain spot on a given picture reminds me of something different and special. Whether it is a rainy day or a cafe I’m imagining, high school days, snowy nights, a vacation at some exotic place or simply a summer night just as it is, I get all kinds of imagines and feelings, ideas and memories. I am going to try and paint with my words soon again and I hope that the paint hasn’t dried yet.