i will try to describe last week , ゴールデンウィーク, on friday or sometime when i can concentrate. it is enough to say that
i have my mind occupied with classes and this special amazing kind of freedom
that makes me feel almost ov
erwhelmed. after 6 months. like heavy weight off my shoulders.
“i have always wanted to die young, i have never imagined again. die young, die shining, die with my soft skin thickly kissing my skull. i have always wanted to die because i have always wanted my life to be like a short story. heated and conclusive. filled with allusions an quotations and foreign words that make it sound elegant and bewitching, resolving around one simple plot, a set of obvious difficult decisions but decisions that i would have to make. besides a few times i can count on fingers of one hand, i have always been writing short stories because they felt natural and obvious, less turgid, more round –
(an essence, and essence, and essence)
– the less words there are, the more powerful they are. if chosen wisely, that is. it requires some skill i am not sure i have, but i have been dreaming about it at nights, for ages, those nights that i would have preferred to pass sleeplessly, my body heavily filled with insomnia, but i have never been blessed that way. maybe i would have run away from all those stories that i dreamed of (that, in freudian manner, are supposed to show my deepest desires and i laugh at the outcome) or maybe more would appear in the state of wide-awake unconsciousness.
or i could live in an epic poem but those do not fit in this world anymore. unless you go sickly metaphorical, that it. (i have always, always been drawn to those mythically suffering, the forgotten tales, the byronic heroes, the wasted lives)
i don’t want my life to be like a novel. i have never been a novel person, i get impatient, skip paragraphs, skim pages in half-annoyed half-fascinated anticipation for the end. novels are prolix and complex and confuse everything the way that you no more know where is the story going and i do not appreciate this maze in the slightest.
(most books i do appreciate are just overgrown stories, down to the core)
i don’t want my life to be like a novel. in novels there is not enough place for word games and mysteries as they get too confusing if overused. i like mysteries and i like synthesis. i wish i could find a good metaphor for a novel, but at this time the only thing that stops my mind is desert and this is surely not a good word. (there’s sand in her mouth. and there’s sand in her hair. and there’s sand everywhere) i am too lazy for novels. i am too lazy for life. all i want is to be left alone quickly, with a turmoil in my head that i can turn around and observe like an ancient globe, and novels want my attention and my focus for a long time, stealing the minutes i would rather spend talking to myself and re-telling sentences, tasting them at my tongue. it takes too much time to read a novel, too much time to write a novel and too much time to live a life. (and yes, i am aware that living a life takes exactly as long as it takes) i keep telling people to shut up, in a kind elegant way, using fancy grammar structures and smiling, with a remote desire to murder them circling in my veins. wasting words. overusing words. it makes them worth just n o t h i n g.”
(climbing and photo shooting seem to be dangerous activities)
cycling:
fast: 250 km
slow: 0!
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