writing

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I do often feel that if I could just sit down and write, it could just save my life, but … my head is such a mess more often than not that simply can’t bring myself to even put things into words.

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It is hard to write.
Because most of the time, I don’t even know what language I’m thinking in. Because, sometimes, when I try to sit down to write, the ideas and things I want to say pour out in the wrong language and I can’t translate them because not all things are inter-translatable, many things in different languages just exist in different dimensions. Because, most of the time, again, I need to fight the feeling of guilt, because part of my consciousness tells me that right now I’m in a place where I need to be looking at things that are more real and material, as there is not much time left until last piece of land I’m standing on disappears under my feet. And spend the time I try to spend writing, studying or working, cleaning, healing…
But, it seems, Alfred Kazin has said once that, “One writes to make home for oneself, on paper.”
and ohgod I need that home right now. Any kind of home

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Every writer has a myth-country. This does not have to be childhood … Myth does not mean something untrue, but a concentration of truth.

Doris Lessing, African Laughter

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The best thing about childhood, 

and the thing I miss the most right now,

is that feeling of endlessness of time. 

The feeling of a long long road in front of you,

that you actually feel anxious to walk quicker than you can.

That feeling that you can get a cold (most likely want to get a cold) 

and time would just stop while you could stay lying in your bed for few days,

and nothing would actually change when you got up again. 

Everything moves so fast now I actually feel like I’m being dragged by my hair and can’t get enough a break to stand back up on my feet. 

And I crave for something that will give me that feeling of time staying still again.