I thought I would never to be able to bring myself to write another entry here.
But here I am once again: scribbling a letter after another until I finally make up a word, a sentence, a paragraph that’s lucid enough to express my apparent ambiguity and my obscure speculations about the world, about everything I know (or thought I knew).
Continue reading “Inside my Homicide: A Verse in Purification”
This month I made a promise to purge myself from the grime that surrounds my soul.
It was kind of a shame how it took me this much time before I even began to notice and to realize that I was already ten-feet deep into the poison which, for all these years, I have clung into and suckled upon like a starving infant.
As a symbol of this newfound pact, I am going to shower myself with green tea for the first 21 days of December. I’m on my 16th day now, and struggling with consistency. I know it might sound odd the way I gather things and create unnecessary connections between them (like my inner thoughts and herbal drinks) but this is just me and this is how I function. I need a certain kind of a myth, a symbol to fasten myself onto, otherwise all of my attempts will fizzle into thin air just as easily as a blink of an eye.
I am never blessed with optimism, having been reared in the womb of melancholia. But this time—at least for this time, I am going to tell myself to look at the brighter side of things and to take this life one steady cup at a time.
Some days I just feel this inexplicable exhaustion from writing, as if every word I have in my head is drained to its last dying drop and every sentence is wiped out clean of their substance. I have been writing for as long as I can remember, and there is simply too much friction in my head already brought about by the relentless engagement of words, by the merciless impingement of their letters.
Don’t get me wrong. I am more than thankful that I am still able to write, even if most of my writings now are just musings, personal reflections on my every day life in the city, reviews of my most favorite books and films, and honest takes on beauty products and online shops. I have created quite a distance now from the kind of writing I had been accustomed to for the past five years in the university, and sometimes it feels odd to write about things which I am not so sure of writing, things which I am not familiar with. (Like how am I going to write in a manner that acknowledges the presence of the reader and allows the reader to know of his/her participation?) When I was writing way back in the university, I wrote mostly for exposure: to let my ideas be disclosed to my professors without thinking whether they would approve of it or not, or whether they would understand it or not. What I learned from reading philosophy was to get as brutal as possible to expression. I think I was never able to finish the Critiques because I had no patience with Kant. Hegel was so close to unfathomable. Heidegger was gigantic with words until the eternal charade of Being and being. Nietzsche’s my favorite but they say his writings are not for everybody, and sometimes I feel like I am part of that excluded crowd.
Continue reading “A Royal Exile”