Writers love solitude, they are born in houses of glass, but t | Paraphernalic Thoughts

Writers love solitude, they are born in houses of glass, but they wrap their longings in the open. Each of these houses lies on the edge of the social stream, its glazing panels exposed to mud smudges, stone cracks, signs of disgrace, and the mist of suspicion.

The isolated writer is drawn to the call of the streets, abandons his glass house, and joins the advancing night armies with their torches, without having the opportunity to turn a little, to see his capricious house amid the waters of the flood that wash away and swallow him up.

To a house of glass, and I am trying in a few words to determine its location, and imagine its fate. I see it once like a box settling little by little in the sea, like a submarine with transparent walls, and snoring again in the depths of a tangled forest, and a third awakening in a vast desert, looking forward to the sunrise through its clean glass, and a fourth like a pyramidal skull, sitting on the edge of time.

However, until when will my glass insulation protect me from the waters of the flood that surrounds my reassurance, and hits its walls so fiercely? Feathers of fists demand my exit into the stream of the human crowd rumbling around my bed, and I fear its resistance to my weakness and hesitation.