joie de l'écriture

It’s the kind of solitude writers have spent their lives searching for and yet the closest they got to seeking it was only by writing about it. It’s that moment in time when you can hear none but your own self. The same self that otherwise engages in an endless strife with the alter ego is today exceptionally tranquil. There is this same surreal tranquillity gripping the air. The high rises towering outside the spanking glass windows shimmer like mirrored disco balls and yet the city assumes a mystifying calmness the kind that rests on the dance floor when the last pair of shoes walks away from it. A melting pot of cultures and temperaments has been frozen for a moment and within each moment rests the vastness of an eternity!