i try to write but it seems as if the words only disappear into the darkness. before i am able to grasp their meaning, understand what i am trying to say, what the words are trying to tell me. when i am writing i feel as if i am already receiving feedback of some kind because the sentences just bounce right back to me telling me whether they sound wrong or just truthful. because that’s what the problem is. wrong vs. truthful. there are only two ways, in which i am able to write anything at all. in a wrong way, where every words seems to be an extra and not fitting into the story or it’s simply a truthful reflection of my thoughts, which is something i am often not able to take and let it slip into the real world where anybody can read whatever i put up. and so i avoid the confrontation completely.
i turn to other worlds instead. i turn to a world, in which i find consolation. recently i’ve (re)discovered the beauty of the french cinema and french culture in general. sebastienne, thank you for that gift. i am turning to cinema, to art and literature, harlem renaissance. anything, anything at all, just to take my mind off the fact that beginning tomorrow things will change. it sounds very dramatic, but it’s not. i’ve only decided to take some control over things, which i can control. there are many steps to be taken and even more steps to be build in order to be taken. but i am looking forward to it, in a way, because i’ve gained a new perspective on things. i am not sure whether it happened somewhere in the middle of the dreamers or half way through human traces. it doesn’t matter. the only thing that matters is the fact that i am willing to move forward. it still feels stiff but it feels good. it’s time to start licking envelopes.