"The poet is a faker
Who's so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact." [ Fernando Pessoa]
Why is that that the most amazing thoughts come out of the saddest moments? They just jump out of my infra-ego, carrying enough soul with them to give me goosebumps, slip through my fingers straight to the paper, begging to be transposed into phrases, paragraphs, stories. And, after all this process passes and I go back to read all those sentences predicated with saddness, I wonder how much pain I was carrying to actually be able to feel that. Because the me who reads those broken words is not the same me who wrote them. My own hurtful conjugated verbs and tearful adjectives from yesterday don't mean anything to me anymore as I read them right now.