And so today and from now on I have to learn to write better. I have to take my stories and give them a start, give them a middle, give them an end. Sprinkling the words onto the page, carelessly, will not do any more. If my dearest cannot understand, then I can surely never expect my foes to heed. I want to feel close to my words and I want to make sure that I am able to tame them. I will give them a regime of exercise so they line up, the ones that begin in the beginning and the ones that I want to use at the end go to the end. I may lack power in many areas of life, but with confidence I can see this will work. For a writer, writing is never this complex; it’s never dissected to these depths. Phoneys like me must learn to make friends with the words first. Phoneys like me have to beg these letters to obey just for a half hour.
Then I am met with doubt, for when my words are plain, I feel distraught. If I feel exposed, I will feel vulnerable and weak, little and insignificant, I will see the real me and it will confuse me. Maybe I’ve just watched too much Sex and the City for one night. I need this place, this forum, the outlet, to not be real so I don’t have to face the reality of my existence. For at least with these short writings, I am able to transcend to another life, another person’s life. When I’m me, when it’s late and I am alone, I break into millions of pieces and hardly have the power to squeeze a drop of superglue out of the tube to fix myself. But I do because I cannot stay broken. These words hide me. They burry me. They wrap me soft so I don’t feel the harsh wind, the bitter cold that’s so imminent.
What I write then gets twisted and sees layers upon layers until it’s so bogus even I can’t relate. I mix a word with a thought with a colour with a feeling and expect nothing but appraisal. Simple is true and I wish I could write simple. But even if I was a writer, I’d have to trample across an insane amount of complexity just to realise the beauty in simplicity. I realise the beauty, I long for it, but I most probably will never attain it. Fears laid down on paper somehow seem a thousand times worse than if they are hidden in a cocoon of mystical phrases. And I’m good at that. I’m good at making fog when it’s a clear blue sky. That’s why I have a humidifier that’s blowing out cold vapour. I’m making my life hazy so that everything that makes me nervous is covered. Because when I’m alone, when it’s dark and there’s nothing else but the music, the moon, the humidifier, the heater making crackling sounds, the lonely guitar waiting to be strummed, the open book waiting to be picked up, the three channels on my shoebox sized television, then I catch a moment of truth. That moment chains me to the floor or sofa or chair. The pain from inside of me reaches up and up and escapes through my eyes, if I’m lucky, the tears stream down. That moment throws me into a well that I see no way out of. Those are the times when I take my machine of words and start typing as fast as I can to make the lucid dream disappear.
Because the reality is that I am alone. I’m afraid of holding on to the past and I am petrified of the emptiness that the future may hold. I come undone when the prospect of a useless life flashes itself before my eyes. I realise that life is a circle. Everyone is just a part of the system, taking a place in the grand scheme of things, setting foot within the revolving doors. The Farris wheel. The hamster cage. Join the club! Get married, have children, have a career, retire, die. If I think there is no point, will I stay unhappy? I know that it’s all good and well for me to say now that I want nothing but to be alone, that this is the most comfortable for me, but in ten years time, I will look around and I will not see anyone. All who matter now will have whizzed on without me and I will be left lonely. Confidence? It’s never been a friend of mine. Hope? Oh, there’s always hope, but I tend to think not for me. If I am lonely now and if this is something I enjoy, then this will never change. I am the problem. I tell myself I need to be loved, but then this sends me on an even lonelier quest for fulfilment. What do I have to offer to the world? And is it justified to be existing on this planet in vain?
Love might make sense, but the kind of love I know is buried somewhere deep in the past and I have only just learnt to leave it in its place, in peace. This is why I have never been more scared to take a trip back to that place where it all started. What if I find my heart that I left there so long ago? Is it wrong to always look for the kind of love that touched me the first time? Am I not willing to compromise? Because after I have admitted that I am lonely and after I have admitted that I am unhappy, I still would never dare to hope for a change in things.
It’s comforting to know that there’s a surface and that the raw, the wounded flesh doesn’t stare out to every passer by.
Then I am met with doubt, for when my words are plain, I feel distraught. If I feel exposed, I will feel vulnerable and weak, little and insignificant, I will see the real me and it will confuse me. Maybe I’ve just watched too much Sex and the City for one night. I need this place, this forum, the outlet, to not be real so I don’t have to face the reality of my existence. For at least with these short writings, I am able to transcend to another life, another person’s life. When I’m me, when it’s late and I am alone, I break into millions of pieces and hardly have the power to squeeze a drop of superglue out of the tube to fix myself. But I do because I cannot stay broken. These words hide me. They burry me. They wrap me soft so I don’t feel the harsh wind, the bitter cold that’s so imminent.
What I write then gets twisted and sees layers upon layers until it’s so bogus even I can’t relate. I mix a word with a thought with a colour with a feeling and expect nothing but appraisal. Simple is true and I wish I could write simple. But even if I was a writer, I’d have to trample across an insane amount of complexity just to realise the beauty in simplicity. I realise the beauty, I long for it, but I most probably will never attain it. Fears laid down on paper somehow seem a thousand times worse than if they are hidden in a cocoon of mystical phrases. And I’m good at that. I’m good at making fog when it’s a clear blue sky. That’s why I have a humidifier that’s blowing out cold vapour. I’m making my life hazy so that everything that makes me nervous is covered. Because when I’m alone, when it’s dark and there’s nothing else but the music, the moon, the humidifier, the heater making crackling sounds, the lonely guitar waiting to be strummed, the open book waiting to be picked up, the three channels on my shoebox sized television, then I catch a moment of truth. That moment chains me to the floor or sofa or chair. The pain from inside of me reaches up and up and escapes through my eyes, if I’m lucky, the tears stream down. That moment throws me into a well that I see no way out of. Those are the times when I take my machine of words and start typing as fast as I can to make the lucid dream disappear.
Because the reality is that I am alone. I’m afraid of holding on to the past and I am petrified of the emptiness that the future may hold. I come undone when the prospect of a useless life flashes itself before my eyes. I realise that life is a circle. Everyone is just a part of the system, taking a place in the grand scheme of things, setting foot within the revolving doors. The Farris wheel. The hamster cage. Join the club! Get married, have children, have a career, retire, die. If I think there is no point, will I stay unhappy? I know that it’s all good and well for me to say now that I want nothing but to be alone, that this is the most comfortable for me, but in ten years time, I will look around and I will not see anyone. All who matter now will have whizzed on without me and I will be left lonely. Confidence? It’s never been a friend of mine. Hope? Oh, there’s always hope, but I tend to think not for me. If I am lonely now and if this is something I enjoy, then this will never change. I am the problem. I tell myself I need to be loved, but then this sends me on an even lonelier quest for fulfilment. What do I have to offer to the world? And is it justified to be existing on this planet in vain?
Love might make sense, but the kind of love I know is buried somewhere deep in the past and I have only just learnt to leave it in its place, in peace. This is why I have never been more scared to take a trip back to that place where it all started. What if I find my heart that I left there so long ago? Is it wrong to always look for the kind of love that touched me the first time? Am I not willing to compromise? Because after I have admitted that I am lonely and after I have admitted that I am unhappy, I still would never dare to hope for a change in things.
It’s comforting to know that there’s a surface and that the raw, the wounded flesh doesn’t stare out to every passer by.
So here. These were uncomplicated words. Untwisted sentences. This was clear talking. From me to you.
I really have to learn to be a better writer.
1 comment:
Édes gyerekem, nem tudom, ki mérte rád ezt a nehéz sorsot, hogy ilyen magányos vagy. A magány súlyos teher. A nagy kérdéseket, hogy minek születtünk, hogy beálljunk-e a sorba, nem teszed fel magadnak, ha megosztod magad másokkal. A világ 6 milliárd magányos ember közös bolygója, és nem mind szerencsétlen. NEm feltétlenül egy másik emberben kell megtalálni a boldogságot. Vannak barátok, hogy enyhítsék a bánatot, vannak ismerősök, és vannak rászorulók, akiken segíteni kell. Bújj ki a csigaházadból, legalább a szarvaidat dugd ki!! Lehet, hgoy majd bántanak, de olyan is lesz, aki azt fogja mondani, de cuki ez a kis csiga! És milyen okos! És mennyire bátor! És milyen jó nézni, ahogy araszol előre, lassan tapogatva maga előtt az utat, milyen érzékeny minden rezdülésre, milyen óvatos! Mennyire kedves!
Nem tudok konkrét tanácsot adni. Írjál, tanulj meg jobban fogalmazni, jobban szerkeszteni, de főleg, kérdezd meg magad, van-e valami, amit feltétlenül meg kell osztanod másokkal,hogy azon kívül, hogy neked könnyebb, ha kimondtad, mások fognak-e belőle valamit tanulni. Segíthetsz-e másokon, ha kimondod a magad kínjait.
Ha túl sok sorozatot nézel, ha folyton zenét hallgatsz, elveszíted a valósággal a kapcsolatod. Éld a magad életét, a maga szürke valóságában, és ahelyett, hogy azután ácsingózol, ami a képernyőn látható, találd meg a magad kis életében a jót. Ne a sötétben gitározva legyél önmagad, hanem reggel a 6-os villamoson. És markold meg a kapaszkodót! Ezért születtünk, hogy részese legyünk a tömegnek és hogy jobbítsunk a világon. Olvass Kölcsey-t. Parainezis. Meg Arany Jánost. Vojtina ars poeticája.
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