Detached

 

The only time I’ve been writing was by hand in my black book where I do not make the effort to build anything within paragraphs. So, not having updated my blog within a month is a sign of complete failure. I really had nothing to say to you, not even to myself in the last few weeks. I was merely waiting for things to fall back into place, which, of course, didn’t work. Some internal process I could not put down onto paper. Not even my music knew how to handle those issues until one morning I woke up and something just clicked in my head. Detached, as I was that morning.

 

I will not look back anymore. Whether related to mistakes, lies or other inconvenient attributes of good-mood-eaters that have been robbing my precious time and consuming my positive feelings. I now accept all sorts of mistakes, lies and disappointments as long as I know there is something more precious to pursue and will come along my way. I’ve encountered only little in London that are worth chasing. Now I’m bored, tired, a product of a 9-5 routine looking to break out.

 

“Don’t stop writing,” Francis said to me some weeks ago and looked at me in a hopeful manner, trying his best to navigate me towards something new and worth writing about. When he said I should write about coaches, I had to laugh. It doesn’t work like that, I don’t usually use anything from the real life to create a story, especially not if it’s related to work and the place in which I’m inhabited. My ideas are based on how you make me feel and what you make me see with my soul. It can be a lie as well.

 

I always need my fiction to juxtapose against reality. In the last month it was merely reality looking to swallow me as a whole. In short, February was dreadful. I had to rediscover my balance and my fiction so I could view reality with a reasonable eye again. Finally now I wake up every morning with a smile and a dry throat. No more wasting time in stagnation, but making beneficial plans for the future. Detachment is not that bad, as long as you know it’s only temporary.  And to some degree it’s even constructive.

 

Life didn’t seem short when I was a child. The four years I had spent at primary school felt like ten years in the end; maybe I’m saying this because the first three to four years at secondary school went by in slow motion, too. Now asking Father Time to slow down a bit seems to be too much of a request…

 

Perception can be a bitch sometimes looking to stir the idea of the truth. The only positive perception you’ll ever have is when you no longer care about the truth. And here, every little detachment helps.

 

Maybe one day I’ll believe again. But not here. Not now.

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