(originally a handwritten entry in one of my notebooks)
finding forester. the hunger similar to that of a starved man has returned in its entirety. I am starved for words, cheap paperbacks, endless cups of strong coffee and french music in the background. lost in words. the pen feels unnatural in my hand even though I have filled more than a dozen notebooks and endless pieces of lined paper with words coming from the depths of my mind; emerging from the darkness.
writing during daylight has never come easily to me, however, lately it has been the only period of time I am able to keep my mind still and focused. I have written more than two hundred thousand words this year and summer is barely half way through. but what does that mean really? how, how do I know when or whether I am ready? how much time, how many nights do I need spend frowning over a couple of partially finished paragraphs before I reach the stage of acknowledgement and more importantly, appreciation of their quality? perfection would be too much of a strong word; I am not wiling to understand or define its meaning. poetic expressions are escaping me and all that is left is my self-invented hate corner and sarcastic remarks in the direction of the contemporary society. the events of my daily life force me to indulge myself in everything that I have but not necessarily own.
I am listening to music that will never be mine, not because I don’t belong into the world it represents but mostly because generations before mine have imprinted irreversible distrust of people like me. I am not sure whether this should be classified as a racial issue because I am just as sensitive when it comes to it as jamal wallace. but the line is so thin and it is within such proximity I can feel its heat. the heat of fire that had been ignited some five hundred years ago but has never burn out entirely. and so I sit on my bed, covered in various mess, seated in accordance to turkish customs, writing down words of meaningless thoughts. and the same time pretending that I understand the lives of individuals that live around the chungking mansions (the slums of hong kong located not far away from my apartment building.) maybe filmmaker was right.
I am back to where I started. fighting hard not to fall in love again. the boy from belgium with the heavy french accent came to my life out of nowhere. I picked him up in a street corner bar of the red district and ever since we have become friends. or some version of friendship. he asks questions constantly but at the same time promises he is not trying to invade my life. because he can feel it. the way I flinch, the way I hold myself back. it’s there. I stay out all night with him but at the end of it all I leave alone. I have never had any set of conditions; it has become a habit I am comfortable with. I am trying to find someone who will actually have the patience and understanding. those will then stand out. right now, though, I feel there is only one person who would understand this; a certain someone in far away california, an entire world away. but I am used to that phenomenon. my whole life is based on it. the sun is about to set down in south east asia and I have only been awake for a couple of hours.