So a new blog, huh? I guess that is my last station before I give up on writing for good.
Writing- the only thing I do and so far never gave up on. I tried singing, playing, dancing, painting and even just studying. But at the end of all I just said to myself: " I am nothing special at that, I will leave the success part to someone else who sees himself as doing so." So maybe I sing well, but not well enough to perform, and maybe I have talent in playing, or dancing, maybe there is a hidden talent in everything and all I have to do is just keep trying. But no, I don't want to. When I paint a tree- I don't feel like I reflected any of my feelings. When I dance- I just dance, paying attention to my feet and if I'm doing it right. When I play- I just look to please others with my skill. And when I study- All I want is to prove myself to my parents, show them I'm not a complete fuck up,excuse my language..
I don't see myself as doing anything other than writing,from the moment I discovered the cruelty of the world- I wrote. I spent nights and days pouring my tears into a piece of paper, tearing it apart with words and filling it with emotions until it felt like it was going to fall apart. And in the mornings, when it all seemed not so bad, I would take that piece of paper and burn to ashes, letting go of my anger, watching it turn to ashes and fly away through the sunrise as if it never existed.
Even if I can't write that well, I still do, for myself, and for the sake of feeling like I exist, like my story is written even though it is burnt a minute after. I write for the sake of translating the storm in my mind into understandable terms, to feel like my feelings are normal and clear. But that is the technical level, in which I use writing to make my own therapy, putting things in place and understanding my own mind when it's a mess.
And for the sentimental part. The paper is just a little bag. I sit, with tears covering my face and my heart aching to free itself out of this misrable body- and I write. I sit, and I shove every little part of anger and rage I have in me,and after that part is done, I fold my sadness quietly and arrange it inside the mess,filling that little bag with everything I want to take off me, everything that is pressing against my chest longing to burst out.
I keep on the memory, and the lesson to myself.
When I finish packing my tiny,yet full bag- I throw it to the sea of non existence. I Let Go.
