To whom it may not concern

Look at this. This... this writer's block. This stupid idea that a blank page could ever be so scary.

Let me tell you what is really scary. Ca... yeah. Censorship. That is scary. Not as scary as the other thing, but my personal life is too personal for this public place, so we'll censor it. Just a bit.

Speaking of censorship, I've noticed something today. In fact, it's been staring me right in the face, but it's finally hit me. Like a wet trout that I've been slapped with over the face. Hmm.

I was posting something or other on a site or other. It's really irrelevant what or where. But on the site there my account is probably throwaway. So I just posted a couple of ramblings. Raw, biting and refreshingly inspired. Do you know why? Because I seriously didn't care who would read them and what they would think.

Gosh.

Isn't that a weird feeling? To create for myself, rather than for my audience?

Actually, not so much. I've been doing that on my Youtube channel, where I've been making videos as a hobby, just for myself. There are occasional people who watch my stuff. Some even like it. I do have to say it is amusing. Especially when I can see my stats and that nobody has ever watched more than 2 minutes of a nearly 2 hour long video. But they sure enjoyed those 2 minutes, man.

And years ago, this was my method of writing well... nearly anything. Even if some assignment or challenge came up, I would always complete it in my own way. And it would be a pretty cool result at times. In my opinion. And that's good enough for me.

Anyway. I'm divagating, but I won't be editing this beyond spell checking. And looking up divagating, to make sure it's semantically appropriate. I need an automatic spell checker.

See? This the epitomy of not giving too many rats' asses. Of writing for myself. Sorry, my dear audience of nearly 2 people.

PS Isn't this the stream of madness I thought I'd lost? So silly of me.

Broken pencil poetry. Running

Running
8.7.23


Thump thump thump -
My feet hit the ground
As I run.

Thump thump thump -
My heart booms
In my chest.

I run and I sprint,
Stirring the dust behind me,
Gasping for air,
Feeling my lungs burning.
I'm running.

Faster and faster I go,
Leaving behind me
The world in a blur.
Where am I going?
Not even I know.
I just need to run,
To run away.

I'm melting
I'm stretching,
Just like a stick of gum,
So in a hurry am I
To get farther and farther.

The world too is running,
Running in reverse,
Going far behind me,
Out of breath too.

Am I far away enough?
Where am I?
I can't stop to look.
I just keep on going forward,
Gasping for air,
Both my feet hurting.

Just for a second
I dare to glance back.

Oh, no!
My heart sinks.

It's still there,
Following me.
It's still there,
Matching my pace,
My every move.
It's there,
I simply can't escape it.
My eternal stalker,
My most threatening nightmare...
My own shadow.

Engendered

I was reading my older stories today. It feels at times that nothing has changed. I'm definitely still the same. Perhaps a little wiser, who knows? My workmate sure thinks I am.

Some stories I wrote years ago now hit very close to home. Some even more than they did when I wrote them. My mind was usually just producing them with no apparent connection to reality. Now they seem so real...

How does the past produce the present? What is the mechanism? Heck, all my wisdom and I can't figure it out.

Maybe I'll write some more things that aren't real. Maybe they just aren't real... yet.

Bitesize fiction. Outside

I saw her today. She didn't recognise me, but I knew at once it was her. How could I ever forget her? We've spent so much time together, her presence is almost second-nature. I used to expect her to be there.
She didn't recognise me though. And if she did, there was nothing in her eyes to tell me she had. She looked through me, as if I weren't there. As if I were a stranger. I suppose I deserve that.
She used to sit by the window, looking out, lost in thought. She would lose track of time so much so, that she forgot that normal people aren't supposed to dream. Not like that anyway.
I looked at her looking out the window. She was too lost in thought to see me. I looked at her and knew exactly what she was thinking of. She was dreaming of a different world, one she wanted to fly to. A world I could never follow her into.
She shouldn't have dreamt of it. She shouldn't have wished it. And yet she did. Without ever saying a word of it. Yet her eyes spoke instead. Not to me, but to the world outside the window.
The window kept us safe. The outside was dangerous. Dreaming was dangerous. But she just didn't care.
One day, as she was staring outside as usual, she suddenly got up. She opened the window and jumped up on the ledge. I leaped after her, but she just turned at me and frowned. And in that look I could see all her anguish, all her sense of betrayal. So I had to let her go.
And she flew. She flew away to her world, outside of the window.
I still see her from time to time. Will she ever forgive me... for keeping her locked up?

Broken pencil poetry. Why

I seem to take a lot of breaks from writing. But you know, life happens and you need to be there and live it with full attention. Now I am back and I'd like to write a little bit more here. Not necessarily for others, but for myself.

Once upon a time, when I was in high school, I was getting ready for the school olympics. One of the subjects I was going for was Romanian (my mother language) literature. We were supposed to do a literary analysis of a poem and explain the writer's intent and how they conveyed that through lyrical instruments: rhythm, similes, metaphors and so on. I ended up reading a lot of poetry during those days. The more cryptic and interesting, the better.

I would also write my own poetry. Most of my high school poems are bound in my little self-published book. Anyway...

I was getting ready for the olympics and I was waiting for my teacher to come up to the classroom, but she was running late. The room being on the 3rd floor with no elevator didn't help matters any either.

So I composed a poem in my head while I was waiting for her. It was all in Romanian and it had perfect rhythm and rhyme. The funny thing is that I never write that way. I only write in English and always in free verse. But this one was different.

The poem was about a soldier and how he went to war and his fight for a good cause. It was a great poem. It was a perfect poem. And it flowed with ease, as if I were reading it, instead of making it up on the spot. I didn't write it down, because I knew that as soon as I would put pen to paper, the flow of ideas would break. So I just wrote it in my mind, where it still dwells, faded to the point of being only a memory.

Now, years later, I have been inspired once again to write about war. But a more dark look on it. A friend once asked my opinion on the current events in Ukraine. I said it was all a terrible waste of human lives. I still see it that way. So here it is, a little poem about the question that can never be properly answered.

 

Why
29th of June 2023


The mud is slippery under their boots
And the air smells of gun powder.
There are gun shots from all around,
With artillery puncturing the din
Like bolts of thunder.

Now and then, a sharp yell of pain can be heard.
Other times, the men fall instantly, quietly,
Like wheat cut by a sickle.
The wheat that used to grow on this very field
Before it turned into a bloody tableau.

What drove these men to fight?
What compelled them to kill?
What sent them to be sacrificed?
For even if they survive the war,
Inside them something will have died.

They may never stop to think
Whom it is they are killing,
What that person's name is,
Who loves them and what makes them smile.
The people they are shooting
Are now nothing more than stalks of wheat.
History will come later
To dig graves and build memorials.

History will come later
To try to explain why.
But no explanation could ever justify
This hell on earth.