Sometimes, I wish inspiration arrived whenever I want it to. I am sitting here, staring at the wall, or reading my book, and not paying attention to the words of the book but creating stories in my head, bits and pieces of poems and stories, but when I take my eyes off the wall or the book, I forget everything. My mind is blank.
I do not want to change the world through my writings. But on the other hand, claiming that I write only for myself is quite stupid, since I choose to post my writings on the Internet. However, not all of my work is posted online, but a major part of it is on the net, yes. Everytime I write anything, I am trying to put my thoughts in an order that makes sense and is most faithful to my personal writing style. My aim is not only to express how I feel or to open up a little, but also awaken people's feelings, alarm them, shock them, make them remember, everything that can create a fire inside them, a fire of love, a fire of hate, a fire of anger, a fire of eros. Feelings are dead, nowadays. Or hastily expressed. Or no expressed at all.
It is sad living in a society that abolishes human feelings. Acting like robots, trying to be impressive, nice-looking, successful, publicly acceptable, politically correct. Is this all life is about? No. We are born to feel, to feel rage flooding inside us like a wild river, to fight, to reach for the sky, but not to forget that the sky is not the limit. Whoever claimed that it is actually the limit, has little experience of the world. We are born to fall in love, fall in hate, cry, scream on the top of our lungs, sing, dance, talk to ourselves at nights, do countless things based on our feelings. Hiding our feelings makes us miserable, makes us not humans. You are not a human if you don't feel. You are a robot, something cold, mechanical, controlled.
Sometimes, I really wanna write. I sit there, trying to compose a text that makes sense, but sometimes words are scattered here and there, like the pieces of a puzzle which must be put together so that the puzzle can reveal a beautiful landscape, or a pretty picture. I am trying to pick them up and make them stand in a row, one after the other, always faithful to the syntactical structure of the language I am writing in, but they do not obey me. They seem to cherish their anarchy, their sense of freedom, their being here and there and doing what they want and not what the writer expects them to do. So I just leave my chair and read something so that my ability of bringing together words can come up and allow me to compose a text that makes sense.
Sometimes, I have a poem or a story so exquisitely composed in my head, while I'm in bed, trying to get some sleep. When I wake up, it's all gone, as if a witch has hacked my brain overnight and magically wiped any moments of inspiration away. I am trying to recall the general concept of the poetry or the short story but it's practically impossible, in a way that makes me wonder whether they actually existed or they were part of a dream which I rendered it reality, while I was dreaming it. I cannot control my mind and my inspiration.
Now, THAT is a text that makes sense. Next time I have some pretty decent inspiration, I will try to note something down so that I will be reminded of the concept of the piece of work I composed in my head. In this way, I may be able to recall it, and write it down from the beginning to the end, without any gaps or hesitations.
I do not want to change the world through my writings. But on the other hand, claiming that I write only for myself is quite stupid, since I choose to post my writings on the Internet. However, not all of my work is posted online, but a major part of it is on the net, yes. Everytime I write anything, I am trying to put my thoughts in an order that makes sense and is most faithful to my personal writing style. My aim is not only to express how I feel or to open up a little, but also awaken people's feelings, alarm them, shock them, make them remember, everything that can create a fire inside them, a fire of love, a fire of hate, a fire of anger, a fire of eros. Feelings are dead, nowadays. Or hastily expressed. Or no expressed at all.
It is sad living in a society that abolishes human feelings. Acting like robots, trying to be impressive, nice-looking, successful, publicly acceptable, politically correct. Is this all life is about? No. We are born to feel, to feel rage flooding inside us like a wild river, to fight, to reach for the sky, but not to forget that the sky is not the limit. Whoever claimed that it is actually the limit, has little experience of the world. We are born to fall in love, fall in hate, cry, scream on the top of our lungs, sing, dance, talk to ourselves at nights, do countless things based on our feelings. Hiding our feelings makes us miserable, makes us not humans. You are not a human if you don't feel. You are a robot, something cold, mechanical, controlled.
Sometimes, I really wanna write. I sit there, trying to compose a text that makes sense, but sometimes words are scattered here and there, like the pieces of a puzzle which must be put together so that the puzzle can reveal a beautiful landscape, or a pretty picture. I am trying to pick them up and make them stand in a row, one after the other, always faithful to the syntactical structure of the language I am writing in, but they do not obey me. They seem to cherish their anarchy, their sense of freedom, their being here and there and doing what they want and not what the writer expects them to do. So I just leave my chair and read something so that my ability of bringing together words can come up and allow me to compose a text that makes sense.
Sometimes, I have a poem or a story so exquisitely composed in my head, while I'm in bed, trying to get some sleep. When I wake up, it's all gone, as if a witch has hacked my brain overnight and magically wiped any moments of inspiration away. I am trying to recall the general concept of the poetry or the short story but it's practically impossible, in a way that makes me wonder whether they actually existed or they were part of a dream which I rendered it reality, while I was dreaming it. I cannot control my mind and my inspiration.
Now, THAT is a text that makes sense. Next time I have some pretty decent inspiration, I will try to note something down so that I will be reminded of the concept of the piece of work I composed in my head. In this way, I may be able to recall it, and write it down from the beginning to the end, without any gaps or hesitations.
