Journal 01

I’m on my bed thinking, thinking about the hardships of writing, and about a possible career in writing, and about life in general, and about death and what it means to die.

What I know is that besides life and dreams and ambitions, there is philosophy; the language of existence itself. No matter how had you chase money, you always have to philosophise once a while. You just rest and you ask yourself deep existential questions. It doesn’t matter whether you solve the questions or not. In fact, you can’t solve the questions. What matters is that you’re aware of your state of being. This awareness will increase your spirituality.

So I’m on my bed, thinking. This is normal, I think all the time about a billion things, all at once. Yea, my mind races like that. But what’s even harder is to write these thoughts. It isn’t easy to convert thoughts into words, because let’s face it, some thoughts are just too complex for words!

So I’m on my bed, writing. I have to write to escape my head and its many puzzles. Life is complex, and if you give me 10 workless years, I could sit on a rocker like an old man and think my life away. Yea, when you do things too much they become an addiction. So I have to write to escape this addiction, if not, the thoughts begin to swallow me and that feeling is worse than death itself. The thoughts have formed a mental black hole that tends to suckin all other emotions. Some particular heavy thoughts, like existential thoughts and fearful thoughts of death. It’s normal for any living creature to fear death, because death is the unknown: what happens to me after I die? Everyone asks themselves this question at numerous stages in life.

So I must make sure I keep writing. This is how I stay sane. It is good, because if I didn’t work my mind to become the monster that it is today, then I won’t have all these words to write. Think about it. A writer’s words come from somewhere; his feelings. And the more twisted his feelings are, the more interesting his work becomes. And my feelings are twisted indeed. I don’t know about my work, let the reader be the judge of that.

But reader, I am not writing for you, please take note. I am writing for me, for my sanity. You don’t know what it feels like. Reading ‘…for my sanity’ you’re thinking ‘just semantics, melodrama’, but you’re wrong. You have to be a writer to know how words can save someone from possible suicide.

So many writers have been known to take their own lives. For example, Sylvia Plath suffered from depression. She attempted suicide twice before succeeding the third time by inhaling carbon dioxide fumes from her oven. She was just 30 and she left behind two small children. Sad indeed. I shalln’t cry, but Plath’s case is indeed sad.

Ernest Hemingway, Nobel laureate, suffered from mental illness all through his life. You’d wonder why a Nobel Prize winner will ever think of suicide, right? Think again, things are not as they appear. Therapy didn’t work on him. He killed himself in 1961 with a shortgun. Some of his relatives committed suicide at some point too. How sad, a genius going by his own hand. Maybe that’s the point to life; come, think, and die. If that’s the case, then I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, because I’ve thought deeper than any soul I know. But then I have to write these thoughts before I go, right? Did Hemingway write all his thoughts before he went? Must I write all my thoughts before I go? Must I write at all?
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Edgar Allan Poe
Virginia Woolf

God rest them all. One love; from one insane writer to another. May my kisses follow you all to the world beyond this infinity. Till we meet again in nothingness.

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