She? …she is beautiful. She is sitting on the corner, smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t swallow the smoke, she thinks it is too strong and will make her cough. She looks around, sometimes confident, sometimes confused. She…she has had many problems in the past, her aunt used to advice her to stay away from boys, ‘it will only bring you problems dear’, she used to say. She has very dark, curly hair that falls in incredible, interminable waves in which my innocent look used to get lost in. She hates everybody. Or at least that is the impression I got from her. She wants to be a writer, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t want to be like the others. She wants to find a new style, new words, new structure and plots…she wants to jump out of the circle in which the rest of the humans create. She wants to find new characters with new names, other backgrounds, other ends. She often feels frustrated because she is suddenly overcome by the idea that everything has already been created; that there is no space in this world for new things, whatever you look at, wherever you are, whoever you might be with, everything has a reason to exist. Someone’s mind has already invented it. She wants to make people read her composition once it is finished; she wants them to get confused, drive them to the craziness until the moment in which suddenly everything finds its meaning and people start crying, laughing or simply feeling amazed by the unquestionable brilliance of her work.
She wants to play with people’s emotions.
