I know you´d never hurt my feelings, because you´ve shown me that you care. But yesterday you hurt a deepest part of me: you hurt my art.
I once noticed, when I was playing violin, that you stared at me with doubt and a little bit of rejection. Perhaps I was not playing how I should be playing according to your idea of good music. I stopped. I thought I was being stupid, I thought you were right.
But now you´ve limited my art. You say I should not refer to things the way I do. You said that I should be careful of not flying too much, of not making it too sublime.
I am a writer, we are supposed to do that! We find words to make something simple the most sublime thing on Earth, because that is how we feel about it. That is how we see life: we fly.
I thought you were the one person on Earth that could somehow understand me, but now the hole in my stomach is back: you do not and you will never will.
Taking part in Thursday Poet´s Rally