Breaking The Ice

My girlfriend has a peculiar memory when it comes to dreams. Everyday she just tells them in great detail. I think they are as real experiences to her as real events. Well I'm not that kind of person, to say the least, and I'm getting worse at it day by day.

But before we start, I must say, that it isn't a depression-note kind of thing.

Today I woke up, tired, tense and puzzled but there was absolutely no way for me to figure out what I saw in my dreams. The first thing that came to me was this thought: Oh gosh, it could've marked my day, it's good that I don't remember a bit of it. Strangely, though, it did mark my day. It had affected me as if I was just living it all day through.

I think this little thing about me helps us understand: understand me and understand ourselves. We are a new breed, one that has facebook, smart phones and incredible knowledge about the universe. But there's one thing we don't have: an identity. We just start out with a feeling that we cannot understand, nor describe but it's still there, defining our choices. We've successfully peeled back the layers of superstition and natural norms, thus we've enabled ourselves to create a world that reflects our dreams and desires without safe-guards. Unfortunately we've been so efficient in destroying the chains that held our kind back, that we've undone ourselves.

Is the status quo really so profoundly bad? No, absolutely not. But it's still true that we've depleted ourselves, we've negated the essence which made us us. We've forgotten dreams, yet, they are the only things that have effect on us. Who are we? And who am I? No ones. Our struggle to show our worth has concluded in a very thorough worthlessness in our nature.

However, there's still hope. There still is a beacon of light, a guarantee for us, that our breed can become something. We've just got to remember our long-forgotten dream-selves and that's what we have to fight for in order to break the line of facelessness. It's going to be a war. And we've the chance to become the heroes. Let us delay no more, let's beat on, let's alter our courses and find ourselves in the light of purity and beauty.

There’s no happy ending with me.

The best thing :)

Wish I had what I needed To be on my own ‘Cause I feel so defeated And I’m feeling alone  And it all seems so helpless And I have no plans I’m a plane in the sunset  With no where to land 

And all I see It could never make me happy  And all my sandcastles  Spend their time collapsing

Let me know that you hear me Let me know your touch  Let me know that you love me  Let that be enough 

It’s my birthday tomorrow  No one here could know I was born this Thursday Twenty-two years ago  And I feel stuck watching history repeating Yeah, who am I? Just a kid who knows he’s needy.

Let me know that you hear me Let me know your touch  Let me know that you love me  Let that be enough

Let me know that you hear me Let me know your touch  Let me know that you love me  Let that be enough

Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.

 F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night  (via wordsnquotes)

That's a YouTuber

10 THINGS YOU MAY NOT KNOW ABOUT F. SCOTT FITZGERALD Brilliant, interesting and heartbrakingly familiar...

Writer's Block

As an individual, struggling to finish that big novel, I must say I have tons of ideas in the back of my head.

I want to write the story of a stubborn man, whose everything is knowledge. There’s also this monumental epic about the politician, who thought she had won victory for her case, when she just became another misguided dictator. I’d like to see my short story in print, in which the narrator finds himself facing some of the emotional obstacles that I do all the time, which make life a tough run for me.

I’d love to produce movies and short films that would explore the depths of human mind, of guilt and forgiveness, of love and letting love happen. I want to direct and write and play.

I would also like to take action in diplomatic matters and bring about peace and prosperity and freedom and the understanding and common acceptance of good things.

Oh, there’s so much I desire to do. I desire these things with all my heart, to the core of my being. But then I’m reminded that I’m just a youth, sitting before a computer screen, having his novel rest, unfinished, unsatisfactory.

I’m totally honest when I say that I’d put my heart in all my ideas that I shared above. I believe I could write some beautiful stories that would contain some of my truth. But at the same time it’s aching me that I can’t seem to finish my first beautiful and great thing. 

I may be afraid, you know. As a matter of fact, I do feel genuine fear.

If I could send my novel to Fitzgerald, what would he say? He’d comment it’s not enough—that’s my fear.

If Hemingway saw the text, would he be satisfied? I’d just get a flap on the back and he’d tell me that I’m not brave enough and I don’t know what it takes to be a man or to be alive—really alive. Yes, this idea also seems pretty frightening to me.

And what would Bram Stoker think of my work? I can almost hear him say: well, it’s a curious piece and noteworthy in some respect, however, I’m not convinced it is of true value. Sometimes this fantasy keeps me up at night.

Oh, and William Dafoe, wouldn’t he be out of his mind to read this blasphemy? He could only say this: To say that it reaches its goal to cultivate good in people would be too much and to compliment it for mere form would only be a lie. This makes me quite terrified, too.

Maybe I’m not good enough as a person or as a writer, I don’t know. But maybe that’s the true potential in me—maybe an inadequate personality is what’s required for the job to be done and done well. I don’t really know.

What I do know and there’s no mistake, I’m certain, is that I must write it. And that’s what I’ll do. I’ll put my inadequacies, my fears and everything beside and complete the work.

It is my prayer to be made free and capable to write it.

Mr Colbert at his best