The lies that I told

Summary

The text is a metaphorical reflection on the process of writing, comparing it to a tumultuous relationship and the act of creation to life and death.

Abstract

The author contemplates the complex and often frustrating relationship between the writer and the blank page, likening it to an abusive dynamic where the page remains unresponsive to the writer's efforts. The act of writing is described as a violent yet intimate act, akin to a Greek orgy or sublime sodomy, where the writer's essence is embedded in every aspect of the text, from the punctuation to the structure. Despite this intense connection, the writer recognizes a dissonance between their identity and their work, understanding that what is written does not encapsulate the fullness of the self. The text serves as a post-mortem examination of the creative process, where the writer, like a coroner, seeks to understand the forces that animate or extinguish the life within the work.

Opinions

The writer views the act of writing as a form of violation, yet the page remains impassive, failing to respond or reflect the life the writer attempts to imbue it with.
The author is deeply embedded in their work, identifying with every grammatical and structural element, yet acknowledges the work's limitations in representing the writer's complete identity.
Writing is likened to a forensic analysis of life itself, with the writer dissecting the text to understand what gives it vitality or leads to its demise.
The creative process is seen as chaotic and disorderly, with the writer shattering under the pressure of the blank page.
The text suggests a non-linear approach to writing, with the writer jumping between paragraphs without a prescribed order, reflecting the non-linear nature of thought and creation.

The lies that I told

I thought, as you think of any thought before the piece of paper, before the finger, before the art that invades it, that abusive relationship between me and the leaf. Taken with harshness against the virgin victim, I propose a Greek orgy, a sublime sodomy, but when I penetrate it, I do not feel inside it, that damn leaf does not react to my acts, nor does it give me back the life I give.

This unreacted piece of paper, after being corrupted, carries me, I am in every letter, period, comma, in every malformed sentence, in every spelling mistake, in the first, third and second paragraphs, without order, under the piece of paper, I shatter.

I am in everything I write, but I am not what I wrote, what I write or what I will write, just as a coroner analyzes the cause of death, I lay a dead body under the sheet and examine the cause of life. Which or which diseases can cause a body to die? What humanities, sciences and philosophies can bring a body to life?