The Writers’ Shelter / By: Olta Totoni

The Writers’ Shelter

 

By: Olta Totoni

I have never thought of neither meeting a writer nor chasing one. That day was a real coincidence! She was alone walking through the streets of the town. She was counting the steps. She was breathing the fresh air of this gray town. Her spirit was as free as the birds flying in the sky. She was thinking about something and I wanted to explore these thoughts. I decided to chase her. It was an abrupt decision because I was curious and I wanted to understand how her life was. She seemed very thoughtful and heretic. In fact, all writers and poets need and crave for loneliness. Loneliness is very important for them. It is part of their writing process. It is said that the writers have their head above the clouds. Is it true?

She was walking through the streets and she was murmuring something. I went near her and then I distanced myself immediately. She stopped near a bridge and faced the River Dee. The noise of the water splashing in the edge stones was creeping. She closed her eyes and smiled innocently. She started reciting some verses. I could only hear some words, some poetic words that will remain in my mind for a long time. She moved forward and looked at the old train stain. It was standing still. I thought of the people who might have travelled by train and their life stories. She stayed at the River Dee’s bridge for almost ten minutes. She breathed freely and started walking again. It was a silent walk. She greeted the people in the streets. “Hello Writer!”- said a stranger. “Hello!-she replied. She was silent. She had other things on her mind. This is what I could assume from her behaviour. I was happy to share my time secretly. I wanted to walk in her steps.

Writers are like free birds that break the cage of their thoughts. I was wondering where they get this kind of inspiration. They have their own words, their own worlds and their own life which I wanted to explore. I wanted to explore this world full of poetry and compelling ideas. I was a simple reader of poetry and literature, a fan of art and photography but I could not write a single word. I just adored artistic spirits. I appreciated lost souls of the darkness and silence. The writer was not aware of the fact that I was chasing her. She was walking quietly and the streets were quiet. You could hear only the splashing noise of River Dee’s water. I could see the buildings and their special architecture. I could understand the reason why she was a very creative person. The whole area was inspiring. The intertwining of the nature with the man’s hand was so distinguishable. She raised her head and I hid after a tree that was near me. She did not notice me. I was lucky enough as to continue on her steps. She walked and walked and walked. I chased and chased and chased. I was not the only one chasing her. River Dee was tracing us on our walk. The beautiful and high mountains were around us. You could see snow in the highest peaks and that explains why it was a little bit cold in the town.

Writers, they write to inspire. Their writings are like the designs of the beautiful buildings that take your breath away. They believe in freedom and they struggle for the truth and as the imagination runs, they tell life stories, they create characters who try to solve puzzles of their lives. They are sincere, they are damn writers. Her last book was “Lost Souls”. She was trying to find out the truth, she explained the value of being a writer in this meaningful world. She drew portraits of lost souls of the world, some original characters who needed lenses to see the world. Hundreds of portraits, thousands of settings! Nonsense! Nonsense!

She was walking quietly and her soul was exploding. She was a writer. She saw the world differently. She saw the world differently from you and me. None could understand this.

The town was behind her, green areas were invading the buildings. Nature was everywhere. Big green trees invaded the house, the writer’s house. Yellow flowers had bloomed on the dark vases and she was finally here in her poetic shelter, plunged into the depth of nature. The house was enormous. It was full of history, history of books, history of people, and history of characters. I could see now in front of me the writer’s house. I could imagine her writing on the typewriter. Some papers spread everywhere and you can imagine the rest. I lost the writer from my sight. I went around the house looking for her, I could not see her and I felt like a fish out of water. I went on another part of the house. It was a big decorated window and I approached the glass. It was cold and a cloud of breathing was formed around it. I could see an enormous library, thousands of books, a roll of British writers; Muriel Spark, Anthony Burgess, Doris Lessing, Thomas Hardy, thousands of writers and that made the house more beautiful.

I could not move my eyes out from that beauty. I have chased a writer and I was there, outside her house, feeling the rain on my shoulders. I was there soaked and the rained did not only soak me, it soaked my spirits. I was there in the rain. I was there in silence, waiting for the sun.

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