You are a student of a language, warping butter-like words on your tongue.
You are eloquent in your home language, you've spent years, fifteen to be exact, manipulating this language to meld to your tongue and move the way you wish it to.
You're so smart and you, a writer of essays of poems of stories so proud, and then. Then in this new language, in this language you cannot bend, you must stay still like steel.
You must stick to the rules and follow them straight because speakers won't understand your metaphors, they won't understand the strange phrases pouring from your mouth, they won't understand you.
Your control is gone and you must be controlled by the voice you made for yourself. Now you perfect your language because it needs you to, not that you need to.
If you do not, well, you will not be understood. And what is the curse of the writer but the longing to be known?
Longing (unfulfilled desire) - envie, désir
Je n'ai voulu pas l'envie mais c'est la malédiction de l'auteure
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