There are just two kinds of music: all the other – on which the body can dance, and classical music – on which the soul can dance. While I was listening Rachmaninoff the flood came at my door. So they climbed two by two on the Arch. Not the birds. The birds cannot crawl or climb, that’s why they always arrive in time. ~ People crawl. ~ So they floated one year and ten days until Ararat. Life bloomed in two. If it wouldn’t be that simple! Two times simple! The drops of rain, two by two, are listening to my music on the other side of the window, before being absorbed by the silence of the earth. But the human is music and flood. Divided in two. Good, and bad. And divided. When inside of himself, when outside of himself. And he is sometimes late. Just the birds and the rain come in perfect time. Is it raining outside of your inside too?
You see, the world is not enough satisfying for a writer. The world doesn’t fit the writer, the world’s design is for him like a straitjacket. The writer is a human, at least physically he looks like all other humans, but he is unsatisfied, gaunt and silent. He creates a world of his own, one to reflect all of him. He is getting rid of this world as a serpent gets rid of his skin. Between the covers of the book he plays God and molds humans of paper. And he is punishing them or creating them wings, as he considers. Some he kills with bare hands, not because they were bad people, but because they did bad things, and he leaves others to die by themselves. And then the writer realizes that revenge doesn’t exist, and that death is not a penalty, or if it is, is the same for everybody. Did God feel that way in the beginning of everything? Did the creation, the world, the water, the muse, the island, the sunrise, the stones came out of discontent? Out of an unbearable loneliness? God created the human and the horse. They were both free. The human created the whip and stole the freedom of the horse. Because he felt unbearably alone.