White Page

A white page, and somehow things just seem to be drifting around my head far from even thinking about showing themselves through my weak words.

When a text is written, I think that it's got the power to change the world. Maybe that's exactly the point, it might well be the mean I have to make what I'm supposed to. But still, besides not knowing what it is, I feel like my texts come out only in rare and special moments, and those are a little more difficult to happen lately.

I think this hot weather doesn't help an artist to show it's feelings, or, at least, it doesn't help me to show mine. My feelings are cold and calm, precise... they just fade out in this warm cloud of sins that boil in the summer.

It surely does not mean that sins are at all different from my feelings, but they just do the same work at different moments of the year.

However, it's probably pretty awkward to read my words about sins when such things don't even exist in my world. One should, then, understand that I just use this world to relate to some behaviours that people associate with it, such as eating a lot.

To close this text, leaving the white page less white, but still empty, I must say that I wish things were different around here... can I change the world?