“A creation of importance can only be produced when its author isolates himself,
it is a child of solitude” (Johann Wolfgang von Göethe)
A colourful and spring-like atmosphere floats around me
like the heat, which ascends from the asphalt –
a white flame burns in every artist’s heart,
either they paint their imagination on the drawing board,
they like to shape the rocks, showing their love for art,
or they follow the scripts
and try to step into the character’s mind.
For me, the wish of writing literature is somewhere between
playing with words and embroidering thoughts or feelings:
the rainbow of inspiration comes from the sky and refracts itself in me –
like a ray passing through a glassy prism –
forming ideas, which grow and develop within my soul
like foetuses inside a mother’s womb;
after their intellectual birth, I dedicate them to goddess Athena,
as precious offerings,
in order to show my love for wisdom.
These creations make me content, because I’ve laboured again
in the name of thinking, of spirituality and of aesthetics,
as well as most of writers do.
If creativity and culture did not exist,
then we would have remained the cavemen from prehistory.
by Alina Andreea Cătărău