Lately, I've been going through a pretty strange phase. I felt apathetic towards life, too hooked on routine. My body and soul were both extremely exhausted, unable to greet the day thankfully, as one should always do. I am trying to get over all of this and be able to acknowledge beauty again. Beauty, not in the artificial way; not in some extravagant spectacle, but in simple things. I am generally a person constantly dissatisfied; I always crave more. This is good, the way I see it; it makes me evolve. I am grateful for what I have, but I know there is so much more in life than this.
I do not deem myself as some amazing writer that has the power to write about extraordinary things and make people think differently. I do not know if I want to be one, I am just writing for my soul. I need to save my soul from being haunted by demons, harsh memories, the abomination of the routinary city life. Writing is more like a need. Without it, my brain would collapse.
The reason why I am writing this text is not to persuade people that I am not a radical writer. My point was, that, lately, I've been trying to find bits and pieces of beauty in the urban erebus, as my blog itself suggests. There are always things that are so ordinarily, statically beautiful, yet they always manage to restore my faith in beauty, in its wildest forms, in its natural forms.
The colour of the sky at night, when it's cloudy, is a priceless spectacle. The fiery red color makes it look so unnatural, so out of place; as if a supernatural piece of earth rose, intimidating, obscure. It almost makes you want to touch it, to feel it in your hands, slipping, like lava, burning the wet ground.
The narrow streets, at night, with the trees leaning down and embracing the balconies, the ground, the people, are a classic spectacle. In the painful noise of the city, one appreciates this peace of mind more than anything else; a walk on the pavement rejuvenates our most humane and sentimental thoughts.
Sometimes, when I am in a car, I cherish looking at the world outside as it quickly flashes before my eyes, gone within seconds, abandoning sparse images in my brain, scattered, like pieces of a puzzle I will later put in the right place; later, someday, in my life, when I go away and I will have to keep images in my brain, so as not to forget the city; the city that welcomed me in my birth and embraced me with its people and the memories they carry. These are images not necessarily beautiful, in the objective eye, but pieces of an urban puzzle, a collection of slices of life so suppressingly interconnected, doomed to co-exist, and suffer one another, with all their eccentricities and ugly deeds.
Someday, once my life becomes a series of woefully identical emotions, images, events, I will take out those pieces of work, and remember those images that made me smile, somehow, when I lost all my faith in the world and in life.
I do not deem myself as some amazing writer that has the power to write about extraordinary things and make people think differently. I do not know if I want to be one, I am just writing for my soul. I need to save my soul from being haunted by demons, harsh memories, the abomination of the routinary city life. Writing is more like a need. Without it, my brain would collapse.
The reason why I am writing this text is not to persuade people that I am not a radical writer. My point was, that, lately, I've been trying to find bits and pieces of beauty in the urban erebus, as my blog itself suggests. There are always things that are so ordinarily, statically beautiful, yet they always manage to restore my faith in beauty, in its wildest forms, in its natural forms.
The colour of the sky at night, when it's cloudy, is a priceless spectacle. The fiery red color makes it look so unnatural, so out of place; as if a supernatural piece of earth rose, intimidating, obscure. It almost makes you want to touch it, to feel it in your hands, slipping, like lava, burning the wet ground.
The narrow streets, at night, with the trees leaning down and embracing the balconies, the ground, the people, are a classic spectacle. In the painful noise of the city, one appreciates this peace of mind more than anything else; a walk on the pavement rejuvenates our most humane and sentimental thoughts.
Sometimes, when I am in a car, I cherish looking at the world outside as it quickly flashes before my eyes, gone within seconds, abandoning sparse images in my brain, scattered, like pieces of a puzzle I will later put in the right place; later, someday, in my life, when I go away and I will have to keep images in my brain, so as not to forget the city; the city that welcomed me in my birth and embraced me with its people and the memories they carry. These are images not necessarily beautiful, in the objective eye, but pieces of an urban puzzle, a collection of slices of life so suppressingly interconnected, doomed to co-exist, and suffer one another, with all their eccentricities and ugly deeds.
Someday, once my life becomes a series of woefully identical emotions, images, events, I will take out those pieces of work, and remember those images that made me smile, somehow, when I lost all my faith in the world and in life.
