felt inspired, might delete later
(a poem made up of authors’ quotes)
“The rest is silence” (shakespeare)
That’s what they say, what they believe.
It’s comforting, a safe shore, steadfast.
They write about love, sometimes lost but still the sweetest concept, they write about dreams, asking to be considered like them (kafka).
They look for themselves with lanterns (dickinson), falling in the dark depths of their minds and dwelling in possibilities (dickinson), in what that they can imagine. They try to shut out the world, not to be touched, not to feel to stay safe (plath), not to suffer, asking if it’s better to be or not to be (shakespeare), to live to enjoy life as the rarest thing of all or to just exist (wilde).
They say to look for flowered paths, avoid the paved roads of normality (van gogh), not having to be perfect, just to be good (Steinbeck).
They write aiming to be heard, quiet but not blind (austen), reading a thousand books to let their words flow like rivers (woolf). And they are all just humans, drunk on their own ideas (poindexter), talking about concepts that have already been said before but with their own words (Dornfest). And in the end they all became stories (Atwood), chaos in their minds that gave birth to dancing stars (Nietzsche), more screaming on the page than writing (Woolf), singing on the lifeboats of their shipwrecked lives (voltaire), a single drop of their ink made a million think (byron).
But despite their differences all of them look for the truth. Never pure and simple (wilde), but the truth. Written down in the darkest nights to finally witness the rise of the sun (hugo), they turned their blood into ink (eliot), their feelings into poetry.
They spoke about memories, describing them as lighthouses or as bullets (Kadrey), they warned against sparks that may turn into flames (Alighieri), they burned themselves too bright for our world (Brönte).
Who are they? Writers, people that pay close attention to the world (Sontag), a whole bunch of people trying to be one person (scott Fitzgerald). They left their mark on pages, they still shall live -such virtue hath their pens (shakespeare)-… and the rest is silence (shakespeare)
