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I love classical music. I adore the inhumanly, beautiful sounds the piano and the violin make; and if they are mixed with modern vibrations and rhythm, it’s unbeatable combination. The only bad thing when I listen to such a music is that I feel overwhelmed by emotions I don’t know how to control.

I used to put such extreme feelings into poems or short stories, but it’ s been a while since my words appeared on the paper good enough to my judgement. I get disappointed and it hurts to see how empty and blind my muse pirouettes somewhere in the distant horizon where time lingers over clouds and thunders.

I want a new muse /I guess most writers do!/, but I want my new muse to be born out of the love that’s right in front of me, that will unlock my imaginary dictionary and the courage to connect the chaotic words into a disciplined and grandiose sentence.

And in the same time I am not really sure if I could survive another love like the one that made me start writing in the first place. This, dear readers, it’s a version of the paradox that suffocates the sunshine out of life.

I don’t know what is better? To crawl in bed with my inside peace and let the days go by beautifully arranged by wisdom and tranquility or do I dare run towards the dangerous glow of his eyes and let him give me the power of passionate speech that will create tides of pleasure equal to the pleasure coming with the sound of Vivaldi’s violins?


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