Sometimes, words are resisting, they refuse to comply, to display; they only want to be plain, insignificant. They apologise for only existing, they balk listening.
For a week, words have been elusive. They randomly dropped on my keyboard. Detached. Uncomplete. Untamed. They had other things to do than translate my stories, than endorse my inspirations. They were reluctant to become Jo, that ancient version of me, that unreal version of me, which still feeds to the same roots.
I wanted them dead but instead I let them to their rising, I have designed tales without them and I have sheltered into music. The music of the one I used to be, of the one I was trying to write. And all of a sudden, harmonics magically brought me back to a time, to a state, to a forgotten version of my life. The exact one supposed to influence my character. My Jo. It moved me with feelings I couldn’t reach anymore.
Music fulfilled me with Ireland, past travel dreams and necessary escape needs. In order to write my departure, or Jo’s. In order to reconnect with what used to push me, so it can relate to the one I was inventing.
I dived into fall’s melancholia, I walked into other walls, I breathed throughout ancient fogs.
Music rocked me into a state I could relate to write, even if words, still, were resisting.
From this reconciliation with Jo, I could give birth to my last character. My new travel buddy. Alwilda. The Viking explorer. Made from scratch that one. And from that encounter, I have found new paths, I went from she to I, I changed novel into logbook. The I has freed me. A little. Words still were trapped into the void, but it has opened a road for tomorrow. Even if I doubt it.
For a week, I have been a writer even when I didn’t write. Words were floating in my mind. Stories were building in my heart. I didn’t write enough, yet I felt I was going somewhere in the unknown, I felt I was getting closer to my destination. I have gained perspective, volume, simplicity… Even if words were fleeing. If they were fighting inside. If they were having a tantrum. I wasn’t scared of their absence, of the defiance. I knew it was not time yet; meanwhile, another story was being told.
Justine T. Annezo – October 25th, 2025 – GTM+1
Fleeting Wor(l)ds 