I’m a royal pain in the ass. Please feed me to the crocodiles, your majesty!
I sit and I stare. Wide as the monitor is, it seems today it can’t suck me into its deep universe.
No, not today. Electric light hits my face, and my pulsating eyes. Sound intertwines with my silence in the far corner of the room. “Today I introduced myself to my own feelings”. Good ol’ Anathema. I twist my head like a rickety contraption. To scratch my thoughts against the sound. Blogging isn’t easy. Everybody thinks that squashing some words against bits and bytes solves everything. That with their words and thoughts the world is suddenly better. And then the pain comes. The doubt that maybe you’re spamming not only the Internet, but the whole universe. The doubt that everything has been said before, and done. A glimpse of the fact that you’re probably just another one to round off the pattern in an array of feelings. That’s why I sometimes find it better to keep silent. Silence is confortable.
What does one year mean? One year means you can share a pillow but not your feelings. It means more make-up and higher heels. Numbness. That formal feeling Emily Dickinson describes:
After great pain a formal feeling comes–
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore?
And yesterday–or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow–
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
One year more seems to be one year less. One year, and you’re lost in your reflection, tapping your delicate reality to make sure it’s real.
Today I’ve learned the most important lesson of all. The beauty of silence lies in the fact that it’s close to nothingness. It represents all the ideas and no idea in particular. It’s a complete feeling and at the same time, sentimental numbness.








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