Yes, I know long time no write. I lacked inspiration, my problems were at stake and thousands of other things prevented me lodges here. Almost forgot I had even keep the words, until I got in my inbox an email: "Keep New comment on Words." I immediately remembered that I had to reach 100 issues by the end of the year, and nearly died of fright. Do not make it. Would have to write about a topic a day!
to screw up even more (and those who read this blog know that is one of the few times I get this kind of vocabulary), I think I killed my laptop. Seriously, I turn and gives me options of "Safe Mode" and "Start Windows Normally" and neither serves. The screen goes black, only with the pointer.
To put the cherry ice cream (or so says a friend), the comment I received said I had to keep writing. How encouraging (seriously).
And if we have to add something else, wait until you see what issue is this.
Here I am. Writing. And shivering because she just had an earthquake.
Item 18 (How, I do not get even 20?) - Write
took a pen he found on the floor (never missing, she had more factories pencils Faber-Castell) and one of the many books he had out there, and began to write.
was rarely inspired, he would rather be his friend Paloma which he wrote, but when he started to put into words all the follies of his adolescent imagination (although too mature for her age) on the stop.
felt that the words came alone, I could not stop. It was almost magical.
Between bites the poor pen, which appeared to be a dog and not Natalia, and studs so violent that nearly broke paper, managed to invent something. He read it over and over again, and changed things and stuff. In the end, could not be more satisfied with their work. It was, in their eyes at least, a work of art. Rosas
Her long black hair waved in the gentle evening breeze.
She was sitting on the windowsill overlooking the first floor garden full of beautiful flowers of all colors, especially beautiful roses. However
...
was only one solitary white rose, white as snow, which stood out as the moon in the night sky, among all other flowers.
had a special glow, almost magical, it was only visible at night. By day camouflaged, hiding behind the sun. People admired the garden, amazed at her beauty, rarely took notice of the existence of the shy plant, and those who were saying "How is it possible that among so many beautiful roses as there is so pale and inconspicuous, which seems to have fallen behind at the time of bloom and beauty did not match the others? "
At his young age, at least to be as morally and legally an adult, the girl had become accustomed to these comments, but did not care, because she knew I was the only one who appreciated the beauty of that flower.
remembered having planted when he had to put on his toes to reach the doorknob, and then going with their parents proud, to tell them he had planted something.
Only she could water the rose, otherwise the plant stubbornly refused to drink either water more pure and delicious that ever lived on earth and beyond.
Anyone could say that the flower was dependent on its owner, and although it was true, only the wise eyes easily noticed that the hard truth was different, she was more dependent than imaginable.
The girl had developed a strong sense of responsibility solely because of that flower. Of course, dealt with great care in caring for others, but it was this especially that taught him how. Yet been fond of her, and would have preferred to die rather than neglect his "little angel", as he liked to call the white rose.
A sudden gust of cold wind from blowing without notice in the middle of the short summer nights, separated her from her thoughts, while that made her lose balance and fall slowly to the rose whose thorns never looked so threatening and dangerous as now.
Prior to her the rose thorns were like the claws of a cat were to blame not need them, but they could not survive in nature. Not seen as a danger because he had never had the need to start a rose (it seemed inhuman act) and had played with their weapons of defense.
"This is the end," I done something to make me want to hurt the roses? " she thought, closing her eyes, which in a normal person would have been full of tears, but she did not, knowing that if the roses were hurt because she had done something wrong. Finally waited mortal impact, which, through the eyes of any viewer, was mortal. His body fell violently to the floor with a loud sound. Was found several minutes later by a maid, attracted by the noise, he did not think twice and called an ambulance, which soon arrived.
in the hospital after several young doctors reviewed the accident, was a sharp mental blow for all the maids, whom he had great appreciation, which had no chance of survival.
While the receptionist was marking the number of funerals specialist clinic who came in rare but sad times came last and most of the maids, with the white rose in a pot glowing like never before. In its sixty years of life had worked forty in the same family and had developed a special attachment to his current boss. I knew her and knew perfectly well that if something was going to help was to be the flower.
Making his way between her friends and physicians, all wailing, came to the couch where, according to the doctors, never get up.
left the flower on the nightstand. As expected, she opened her sapphire blue eyes again, and, looking toward the maids and pink, faintly murmured "thank you" and then show a gentle but honest smile, all his strength enabled him, because of all the scratches and cuts on his face and throughout your body.
I've been waiting for a chance to show the text (Rosas, not what came before. That made it up in ten minutes to break the skull with nice background music) and finally found where to put it.
The text, in fact, I wrote in mid-2007 (must have been the first week of July or so) for interscholastic competition literature. Unfortunately, there was a page and a half printed word and not three copies (or page title), so I did not enter. After
believe have lost in the transfer of computer files from my mom to my new computer (mine from me to my self alone, as they say my friends xD), I came across a surprise to have it saved on my Geocities. Almost danced with joy.
write too. I write stories. I write poems. I write on the computer. I write by hand. Write math course. I do not write the English course. I write ... hmmm ... What else I write? Well, I think you understand.
write romance. I write adventure. I write fantasy. Write realism. No, not really write realism. I write jokes. And I write romance fantasy adventure and unrealistic. Especially those last.
Ah, and write songs for the group from my school.
write in French. I write in English. I write in English. I once wrote in Japanese. I write stupid things, too.
write because I oblige. I write because I want. I write because I get angry. I write because I'm sad. I write because I'm happy. I write because I'm inspired. I write because I'm not inspired. And the latter does not come out.
write in class. I write in my house. I write late at night when I should be sleeping. I write in recess. I write in my dreams. And while I shower I think what I write when I can. I write when I have something to write with and something to write about. The first is the only indispensable reality. I once wrote on a napkin. And once on my arm. And the teacher thought he was cheating.
And sometimes I wonder ... Why write? And then I answer
(¿?)... Do I need a reason? O_O
entry was longer than I expected ... but still not going to cut.
(Incidentally, the post title is the English translation of a phrase I read somewhere, I do not know where. The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword. )
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