Writing is medicine to the nerves, though an occupation different from the aristocratic secrecy of the medical profession- so different that nobody will call writing a business like the name by which medicine goes, but no one calls an author in emergency either.
There are two aspects in which writing plays inventive and produces ideas based on the relationship of medicine with life- one aspect is when a literary work takes parts from life’s living body while keeping life’s brain blocked to eliminate the threat of residing impulses getting transferred, and the second aspect is when malfunctioning parts are taken out and given to a completely healthy body to cure them with time.
Here is the first rhymed part of ‘Whispers’:
Whispers
A long weekend, the city’s out in the country
The autumn’s shrinking into produce and in quiet moods
The buildings watch through eyes whose job is guarding
The trees are carpeting their outskirts with fallen fruits
She walks to meet a man of nature
So many men have come across to meet
But as she passes, memories age-old clatter
Each one connected back along old links
The men she hates, despises, fears
The men she envies and will imitate
The ones she will not go near
The ones that catch, for whom she’s bait
The past was easy, taken, lived through
A past that took, from her, today
The present is unreal, with life dues
A present that gives to the past its day
He calculates the strengths directed
An opposition in exchange
His past does whisper to his present
His present whispers to his past
V.P.T. 20.09.2009
V.P.Toucheva 21.09.2009 Sofia, Bulgaria, EU
