Not so many, but sometimes I was contemplated with the privilege of having friends in whom I trusted deeply, who I had enormous respect for and even who I admired for their courageous way of living their own lives. But for the first time I ended up discovering, among anonymous colleagues with common interests, a friend I was proud of.
The coolest thing about this is when pride starts sprouting like someone who doesn't want anything, spontaneously, through the tiny and successive unsaid discoveries, through patches that are gathered in the small sentences and stitched together in the recesses of the spirit by an affection that grows on foundations. of deep admiration. Feelings that pop up here and there, extrapolating questions and challenging the technical logic of analysis.
Just one day you will find, by chance, in any text among thousands, among those lost between years of frequency in anonymous forums... And suddenly there is one that seems to jump on our necks and tighten our throats... Succinct, unpretentious , however intense… overflowing with imprecise feelings disguised as lyrics, stumbling on pictorial everyday humor. I wonder what woke me up. I read some comments… Common as so many… Why the hell did it seem so unusual to me? Why exactly me?
I run my eyes over the title, the literary classification, the number of posts, looking for an explanation for that fascination with the text… “Mommy, I don't want to prove anything…”. A chronicle of fourteen in all… Simple as that! And I, so skeptical and scalded with years by the vulgar-quality of the writings I find, there impacted by the effect of that text without understanding the reason for the fascination in someone as anti-dazzled as me, the instant fascination and charm imposed on a spirit lately so little " charming” as mine…
The search for my own reasons led me almost involuntary and obligatorily to some data, common information that would lend a bit of reality to that intriguing search for understanding. In place of the profile sought, a letter by Sinatra. In place of the photo, a drawing alluding to the background scene common to the few texts. The real data, perhaps, lost among so many questions, was the age denouncing a young man in his early thirties… And that was all! But the little gathered began to talk a lot about this personality hidden behind a few chronicles, which exploded in truths disguised as fantasies in his texts... Has anyone noticed him besides me? Why just me?
I followed the comments of your readers in the following days, which began to grow, although the texts were not… Uncommon! My talented and unknown writer was starting to attract attention and accumulate followers. I got in line and followed him in the other texts… A new surprise: there weren't those expected ups and downs in his works, even those of consecrated talents… That day when you don't wake up so well and things don't turn out so beautifully… Nothing! All were equally brilliant! The sting of internal impact and enchantment were not mitigated in any passage, in any text… It remained uniform, immaculate, untouched by the “unfortunate day” syndrome of any talent. The work screamed much more truths from its author than the disguises disguised as poetic fantasies. Creature and creator merged into an indivisible whole for those who had eyes to see. I concentrated on them to discover what was hidden in the chimeras of their lyrical humor. The unusual chronicler could not control the riot of his chronicles, denouncing realities that his modesty insisted on disguising. Perhaps they perceived it as a water lily sprouting in the swamp, unaware of its own beauty, and they felt obliged to name themselves their megaphones and spotlights by the free will of their sense of justice.
I leave you with some comments, hampered by the enormous difficulty in finding adjectives. All of them proved to be incompetent to express what the texts brought out under the cascade effect of the soul! Waste of time looking for nice words, much less stimulation… That young and faceless chronicler was one of those who never needed outside agents to have his talent slipping out of control. This one simply jumps around his reserves and jumps out without apologizing for his modesty.
A few days passed before a return email popped up in my mailbox. My favorite chronicler – faceless and without identity – thanked him for the supposed praise. What they weren't! Mere observation! We exchange contact addresses online… “We chat” in real time. The small discoveries came more from posture than from revelations from the shy chronicler. He was still shielded in his reservations, forcing questions answered by monosyllabic answers… The subtext and his fanciful chronicles continued to speak much more about him than his fingers on the computer keyboard.
I feared that repressing shyness would prove to be an obstacle to my access to new and admirable texts. I proposed to turn them into a book. He accepted, always immersed in his shy reservations, perhaps accentuated by the common disbelief of casual encounters that dissolve in the oblivion of everyday life. I discovered that one of the chronicles was semi-autobiographical, in the already identified style of a real always hidden by the walls of fiction. I discovered in her the protagonist of his two worlds, already an orphan at an early age, living on the streets, passionate about football and letters. The needy boy played alone in the world who did not accept such a fate and decided to dedicate his life to teaching football to needy boys.
The mystery that continued was about the literary refinement arising from an elementary education in a paltry moment of the mother tongue, with a touch of erudition of the great masters, those who already bring the mastery of other lives, like the immaculate water lily sprouted from the mud. . And he insisted on calling me “master”. Master, me? Very bad in the classroom!… Masters are not made. are born! Like himself. Bows were reversed. Noticing my irritation with the undeserved title, he adopted the inversion of the letters to nickname me, and I became “ertsem”.
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From my favorite chronicler, everything comes out without words, spontaneous and anonymous, without photos or data, without effusive words, not even the slightest thing to say everything that needs to be said. And that little is more than enough to understand him big in his simplicity and in his taste to show himself small. There is no longer any doubt that the work and the creator merge into one, for even if the creator does not speak, the work reveals him entirely. Although the author is shy, the texts scream what he insists on keeping silent, in an act of rebellion against the anonymity intended only for common people. My newfound anonymous chronicler and newly turned writer has my respect for his right to be shy, but anonymity is no longer a certainty. It only serves to lend more legitimacy to the artist, since he does not fascinate us by listening to his mouth or by a publicized image, but by the talent he puts in front of his own face.
So far I don't even know him by photo, and the city where he lives is just a dot on the map, far from mine. By the way, even Sinatra's lyrics posted as a profile – “My Way” – speaks of paths taken in his own way… that only the poet still knows. But what I left as a record on the back cover of his book expresses everything that we will see shortly, despite his reservations, typical of those who value what they have inside more than what they show to the world: it is one of those talents for which we feel just offering the runway for its first take-off, because after launching itself into space, it will certainly never stop flying. As a musical background for his story, only the chords of “My Way” in Sinatra's voice sinking deep into the hearts of all the anonymous hopefuls on the planet.
