The only time I’ve been writing was by hand in my black book. That’s when I don’t make an effort to build coherence within paragraphs. Call it a stream of consciousness.
So, not having updated my blog within a month is a bad sign. I 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 processes I could not put down onto paper. Not even my music could handle this problem 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 at mistakes, lies or other inconvenient attributes of good-mood-eaters, robbing my precious time and consuming my positive feelings.
I accept all sorts of mistakes, lies and disappointments as long as I know I learn something valuable from them. I’ve learned a lot in London, things that weren’t 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 calmly looked at me, 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, and I don’t usually use anything from the real-life to create a story, especially not when related to work and where I live. I base my ideas on how you make me feel and what you make me see with my soul. It can be a lie for all I care.
I always need my fiction to juxtapose against reality.
In the last month, reality looked to swallow me as a whole. In short, February was dreadful. I had to rediscover my balance and my fiction to view reality with a sharp 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. 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 too slowly. Now I’m asking Father Time to slow down a bit, but it 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.