A world of words and conjugations to explore. As F. R. David say in one of their songs "words don't come easy". In attempt to contradict that quote, I will try to share all the toughs and creations stuck in my mind, continuously screaming to get out. I don't expect comprehension, I don't expect any kind of kindness from you. I prefer simple, straight, honest opinions about what you read. I could say that I don't care what you think, but that would be bullshit. Everybody cares about what others think, even if it's the worst thing you can possibly imagine or feel. Because at the end of the day, that counts. As for writers that supposedly write what come from their inside and don't give a crap about what the readers think about their pieces, well, that's just a lie. They write with a purpose, I write with a purpose, and that purpose is quite understandable; to please their audience. Every writer supposedly has one. You are not obliged to like what I write, nor other writers. However, if someone's writing pleases the person who reads it, then I'm sure, next time he writes, he'll have that person in mind. We can see from many successful examples in the industry. On how a first book lead to a second one and so forth. The audience liked, the book sold out. The writer knew that if it was that incredibly successful, the structure, the alignment, were correctly done. The conclusion was easy to take, the public liked it. So yes, writers care. Although our creations stems from our imagination or living experiences, we feel achieved when our work is acknowledged by others. It feels good to write? Yes. It feels indeed. For itself, it helps fleeing from this life and embody some character, or some feeling that we think might me interesting to write about. Nevertheless, the bigger ability of pleasing our public will increase our responsibility towards him, and thus increase our motivation to improve and explore new horizons. It's like a spiral. We write so you can judge us according to our words, our statements, our way to see our surroundings and ourselves. But, at any point, don't think we don't care about your thoughts. They can and will help us on the long road. Everyone aims for Perfection. We ear many times there is no such thing. Well, perhaps we can't achieve perfection. I'm sure I'm still far away of being anywhere near greatness. Yet, I write. Good things, bad things, awful, unstructured things. Some inaccurate, others just terrible to read, maybe. But that's the journey I have to make and endure. To become a better writer? For sure. To achieve something? Also. So, what's the main goal? That must come from inside us, mine is to improve myself, to keep pushing and pushing, to see how far I can go. Everything is lived like an experience. Going on a trip, visiting a new city, reading a new book... And this, this is one of my own. John Waine
Yesterday I was listening intently to the story that a young man was telling me about his difficulty in being accepted and seen. I'll write about what he was telling me for hours in the first person. Not only to make the story more personal but also because I think we all felt like this over time.
Before we start to talk, lets say that I was asked to give one word to this guy, since I myself felt lost for a while ago. The beginning of the conversation was reluctant and gave fight, but after a few minutes of discomfort began to pour out like a beautiful song.
Before he open up to me, he began by saying that he thought much before doing so. He had already thought to consult someone who could help but never had the courage to go all the way.
Extract what felt like a cancer it was, exile what I think, show what I think is completely wrong in my surroundings, what seems not to hit right, what makes my soul so heavy, what lacks in my life. All the madness inside this wretched mind.
Apparently these past months have been terrible. Apparently, but not only. They were indeed. I would say that this time was a complete disaster. Classes, tests, family, relationships, friendships, fuck. It seems that the only thing I know and I can do is to enumerate. And complain, of course. It seems that the only thing I can do is to enumerate, blame, pointing the finger at everything that happens and all that makes me invisible, and of course, I'm already enumerating again.
Incredible, fucking amazing. Is this my purpose? Roam the world like an infectious disease, without life for others, a shadow on the sidewalk without a body. Also Incredible is the fact of having so much difficulty in feeling good. Be accepted, integrated. A part of something. There's no need not be huge, just something. I do not understand how time passes and slow to show a friend, someone who could make all these contingencies easier to endure and overcome. All this might be easier to face with someone with someone next to us, with whom to vent, to occupy the time, this head with destroyed dreams.
Some people complain of having too much to do, too much work, much study, and even though I have so much to grab, all this loneliness takes me strength and encouragement. I lack that push that never arrives.
The worst is that I start not knowing what to do, how to react, and I am constantly assaulted by insecurity. It is as if one side of me wants to fall asleep and not wake up, and another wants to try to let go and try out and learn new things. I want to meet new people, but the state I'm in does not help me to open up and really show who and what I am.
When I see someone approaching me, I think that there is going to begin my recovery, it may be that help that I so badly need. Then head starts thinking, starts working, creating expectations, create unreasonable illusions that serve only to make me feel more alone, more lost, throwing me to the depths of my being rotten and decaying.
I feel lonely and forlorn.
With dreams, expectations, needs, but that only exist in my mind. They do not materialize.
House feels more like a prison than a refuge itself. Not because they handcuffed me and left me in a cell but because they do not know how to get out. I feel the lack of affection, lack of a kiss, a hug. A human touch in this walking ghost.
How can I accomplish my dreams if it looks like I'm living inside them? It's weird. To expect and need something that never comes. Nothing goes well. It seems that when I read a book, watch a movie, a tv series, I feel like I'm the hero, the main figure, and it makes me want to be something more. But no, nothing.
I do not know, I feel so much, all different, all unstable, all at the same time. A nonconformist. With nothing. I have nothing, or at least feel that way. Empty, but full of needs and wants. Maybe all this leads me to distance myself from people, make them afraid to approach, or even unwilling.
Maybe it's time to give up looking something in which I can cling to. Perhaps the best time to change. Give up and try to disappear altogether. Maybe, who knows.
Let's see what this future holds for this my poor soul.
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