I was in Cancun when Vargas Llosa received the Nobel Prize and gave the speech that shook the minds and souls of the American and even those who are not. In my case it was through the video to hear the voice trembling and broken the letters that my eyes got flooded, do not need to hear or see that those black bitches (as called Cortázar Rayuela the words) I found in the my computer screen rout of itself benevolently my emotional being. If I could summarize in one sentence the meaning of Vargas Llosa's speech would be this: Writing is created. I am convinced that if there is a way to move a mountain is a book if the laws of physics and religion dictate otherwise. The great revolutions have sprung from the pages as they were flown by men that take place.
However
write
write
also find, find other penalties for those who have been through, to find other happy feelings of lost moments, find on other floors the same thoughts in different places and times . To me it seems hard to imagine a writer who has not used at least once autobiographical situations when building a story, although perhaps not personally experienced (what is frightening the word "flesh", the write and I wound and blood, who knows why) but at least he has firsthand knowledge of the facts. When I talk to writer friends something to myself is startled to notice an interest in details of my broker, I imagine between honest, shocked and without much modesty that paragraph shall find in a either a story or a novel, a piece of me.
is when I think of the place that I make this ridiculous personal essay writing. But in analyzing the growth and content of social networks I have been harsh conclusions. I remember the summer night, a few days after Nuria birthday, when (- omit your name so that it no Troll -) expressed fierce criticism of the content and the reason for a blog. Why all need to write? Why does everyone think that what they write is important? What good is to generate as many words that say nothing? Does anyone care what is in the mind of an idiot? Bulimia social network of callers. So much information to swallow binge, vomit so much without nourishment.
I do not think that the reason for writing the most inane anecdotes or details, which in effect just might be interested and only bring the world cost of bits, in all cases have their origin in search of relevant . The complaints and tantrums that spit on social networks are for the first time in human history (I can not imagine a time when that many people write) the sample, say tangible, what we need to find an echo . It is not Excel, it is found. If these readers had not bragging, I doubt that is expressed so often and with such noise. This desire for expression seeks to find the echo of your being into another.
That what I call "Eco" has little to do with the Greek myth of the nymph in love with Narcissus. The echo is, as I would understand, that event usually epic and we can hear from other consciousnesses those reflections that same machine and we believe unique, knowing we are not alone. Our preferences, opinions, emotions. Is not the material to build friendship and love? empathy, consistency of taste, the appeal of characters. Perhaps the reason why we feel alone even when we are surrounded by people if we find that with no echo, perhaps the reason that a writer or anyone who performs the task of creating completely still and just do not feel, think and create are exploits where ideas become the best company.
The only way to balance the loneliness is to create. A psychologists like to call "occupational therapy" but it is well known that I like the terms more poetic. I am glad to think that not everyone who writes it does with a desire to presumption and intellectual arrogance. I am moved by the knowledge that there are people who do not seek reward or success, looking to the other. Writing makes you a better person and if for that we should tolerate, and endure, the existence of monumental waste space like this (a lot of what I have written here is close to that goofy trivia), I welcome such participation. I prefer to imagine an idiot writing nonsense on a blog than watching television. It is unfortunate that other platforms are gaining ground terse it.
Surely because I can not think of another way, life has a lot to do with leaving significance in the world, altering it. As a child I imagined surrounded by fame arises from who knows what, but obtained by achieving prodigious transformations to society. Today I know that will not happen, I admit my insignificance, almost-without sadness, but I know at once that there are other ways to transcend , not public laureate form but a more specific personal and beautiful:
-saberte someone ephemeral and whose existence seems to have made great achievements should not be frustrating, dear human. By contrast, someone who persist saberte in memory of others and whose presence affected with little effort but a wonderful and strong the life of someone else is the true success and accomplishment that you should feel most proud .-
profoundly altering the lives of other person.
Been It's not surround, it's to find.
Á toi.
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