Navigating Solutions and Darkness

Mi son alzato O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao Una mattina mi son alzato E ho trovato l'invasor O partigiano, portami via O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano, portami via Ché mi sento di morir O partigiano Morir Ciao, ciao Morir Bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano O partigiano Bella ciao, ciao, ciao E se io muoio da partigiano O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao E se io muoio da partigiano Tu mi devi seppellir E seppellire lassù in montagna O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao E seppellire lassù in montagna Sotto l'ombra di un bel fior O partigiano Morir Ciao, ciao Morir Bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano O partigiano

Photo by  Aaron Burden  on  Unsplash They say good writing comes from pain. The only thing that truly comes from pain, is pain. Sometimes, I try to stimulate inspiration. I hunch my shoulders as if I’m about to pounce. I prime my mind – I warn it, get ready. And for a fraction of a second, it  almost  works. I feel as though I’m on the verge of the greatest writing. And then I’m empty again. Writing isn’t easy. It’s just as difficult, as boring, as down-to-earth as anything else. Sometimes. But what about the stories I write every minute of every day, inside my head? Are they enjoyable only to me? Are they a masterpiece in my eyes only because they are tailor-made to fit my every whim, my every need, my every secret fantasy? For a long time, I have sought the secret to the perfect story. The one which appeals to everyone. The one that appears magically, fully formed, upon the page, and isn’t vulnerable to criticism from silly people who don’t...