I do like to write and I do like to think. I love these things but I fear them at the same time.
Am I a writer? Am I a thinker?
I think I fear of what will be the place of it all. The big picture; the meaning behind it; is it worth my existence?
What scares me, and what bores me is forming my thoughts into something presentable. Forming them into something more real I guess. Just the word “form” is something I detest from. Every time I try to do it, to form my thoughts to write something because of something, to rewrite or reedit, to make a point every time I take an angle on a thought it always undoubtedly falls flat. But, it doesn`t do so just because of that. It falls flat because of the seriousness of situation that isn`t really serious. It falls flat because I identify as a writer. I start taking myself seriously and it stops being a game.
It starts being a job. A job with an expectation… I expect myself to write something smart, clever, witty, but lately, ever since I`ve started considering writing as my number one choice, my ideas seem to be getting worse and worse… my thoughts more and more inconsistent, and the worst is that my relationship with the world is less and less interesting, more and more stress-full. More and more real.
I want to keep it surreal!
I want to be able to catch glimpses of interesting, at all times. I want to be able to create when no one`s watching. To entertain my brain when nobody else cares.
I want to write stories like nobody else ever did. Some stories without an end… Some without a beginning… Stories without characters, but honest stories… Stories from the core of my existence! To freestyle storytelling; Not for an agenda. Not for a cause. Not for a form. Not for art. But, to surprise myself! To entertain reality; to color it… to view it…
The only way to do that is not to be afraid. Not to fear the unreliable future and shameful past.
To feel the world, and the world to feel me!