Beginning to start anew.

Reading through old posts is a great way of not starting a new one. And a great way of not starting anything new, for that matter.

Hello, I have returned. From a very short hiatus (of slightly more than a week) that has felt like a year. Thankfully, I can actually deploy my wonderful sense of humor here, since, oh, you guessed it, my last post was in 2017. I’m time traveling, I’m space jumping, I’m… stuck.

I find it hard to start, is what I’m trying to say. But naturally finding it hard to figure out a way to start my post about my shortcomings in the starting-department. I should have started (at least more thoroughly than I have) on my thesis project by now. I keep reading and thinking, but I’m not really doing much else but that. Plus half the things I’m reading have absolutely no relation to the thing I should be working on.

I should be applying myself to the intense fight for recognition in society, churning out a thesis paper that will have insights into how the current state is; have ideas on how communal projects can help give citizens a feeling of being recognized as people (when the state (i.e. the state’s elected politicians) talk about the citizens (or, more precisely: certain groups of citizens) in a less-than-ideal way (read: downright hateful)).

Also: this thesis period is supposed to teach me how to reach out to people and organizations, so I will one day be able to get a job. Yeah… “dream big.”

So far I’m in the business of waiting for the moment to strike; that spur of imagination, the muse that comes at night and waters my thoughts so they’ll grow to beautiful flowers in the morning, ready for me to pluck and put on paper.

I have of course known for years now that that doesn’t happen. But one is a romantic. And a fool.

Late disclaimer: this post is of course merely meant for myself as a way to try to sort my thoughts, empty my head as they say. If you’re not interested in following my path to self-destruction, you are welcome to jump ship anytime you’d like.

The winter season is strong these days. I hear New York has been rendered dysfunctional in its masses of snow. Not quite as bad in Denmark. Just cold. Cold, cold, cold. The kind of cold that makes your forehead look bad. My skin dries out so quickly in the winter. Add to that the fact that I’m yet to fully accept that my skin is not so all-enduring as it was when I was seven years old. I ought to give my face a deep cleanse at least four to five days a week. I ought to apply ointment to see me through the winter without my skin cracking up like sand in a drought. Heck, I even have ointment. I’ve purchased it. I possess ointment. I just elect not to use it. Or, not elect. It’s not a super conscious choice (though, really, have many of my actions are super conscious?).

Routines. I think I might be afraid of committing myself to such super self-care because I’d need to make it a routine, and that means that I’d have to start a routine. And we’ve already scratched the surface on that whole starting-thing.

Is it a fear of changes? Honestly, at this point, I don’t know. I’m looking for my identity left and right, top and bottom. I’m soul-searching, but pretty sure I sold my soul a long time ago. Last I heard, it was in Tangier, wondering how even Africa managed to be cold in January.

I like it when things start for me. When someone else starts a project and I can tag along. That’s probably part of the reason why I’m realizing that being a book editor is my likeliest occupation. As a book editor I get to tag along and help finish a project that someone else has started. I get to be part of the creative process, I get to feel that the final product is, in a way, mine. All that plus it removes the element of starting.

Oh, you’d say, but you’d still have to start your work! Yes, but for me it’s much easier to start working on something that needs comments and improvements than to start working on a blank page, a clean slate. It’s infinitely much easier for me to finish something that is half-done, than get half-done with something that has yet to come into existence.

Back to the thesis: now, if I could only get someone to do all the networking stuff for my thesis project, and write like… the first 20 pages? That’d be neat. I have no problem churning out the rest from there. I just need a start, a little jump, a kick.

Being the owner of this blog, and having just read through some old posts, it is of course not lost on me, that I have used this place as a starting engine for projects and papers. Getting my thoughts fixed, removing all the dirt that occupies my mind on a daily basis. Deleting the last twenty-million youtube videos currently playing in my memory (that’s an exaggeration, of course. I’m much more of a vimeo kinda guy). It dawned on me today that I spend ridiculous amounts of time reading small news items that have nothing to do with my own life. Watching videos that I know beforehand will not benefit me in any way. Looking through apps that won’t ever bring me any life-altering information, which I otherwise seem to expect from them, considering the amount of time I use on them. I’m not saying I’m going to go offline, but I will have to cut down dramatically. For my own good. I need to learn to only use apps when I’m using them. Not to just look through them for some instant kick, some responsible-free information.

Axel Honneth is my main man for my thesis project. The one on recognition. I can’t wait to get deeper into his theories. To understand it all better. To feel like I apply myself.

Through the days my head is not filled with philosophy. And that’s both reassuring and scary to me. Reassuring because it means I’m not crazy. I have not developed into some guy who can only talk about the things he works with. But scary because it also means that I’m not doing enough yet. Or maybe I’m not sufficiently interested these days. My mind is constantly thinking of all the other things I’m reading.

It has been such a great winter of new books for me. Started in December with Michael Chabon’s newest novel, Moonglow. As always with Chabon, he has become my hero during the reading of his book. His style is one of my favorite things in the world. He gets the pages flowing for me, like I don’t even have to turn them myself. The words just fall so naturally, one after the other, and yet surprising, yet so extremely funny in the middle of the intense, dramatic story he’s telling. Chabon gives me such a good laugh, while stealing my tears and filling my mind with bubbling thoughts on anything from human kindness to astrophysics to the size of cats.

I vividly remember the day I bought my first Chabon book. I was in my local bookstore, looking through the section of contemporary English-language fiction, letting my eyes follow the spines of books I’d already read, and books I was yet to read. My eyes always linger at On The Road whenever I’m in a bookstore. I always take it out, check the price and put it back in again. It’s a routine ever since I gave away my own well-read copy (after I bought the Original Scroll version of it for my own shelf), and realized that I should probably get a new copy, though only if the price is right, which it is yet to be. As I glanced over the books, my eyes stopped on a fat, yellow spine. I could do nothing but reach for it and pull it out. I had half-noticed a woman, looking very teacher-ish, standing to my right, and before I even got to take a proper look at the book, she said to me, have you read Michael Chabon before? He’s quite difficult, very demanding reading! She was no doubt doubting my age: a young boy looking even younger, I must have seemed nothing more than a kid to her, standing there at twenty years of age. I smiled at her, shook my head “no”. I had never read Chabon before. In fact, I had only heard his name mentioned once, on the radio, at a chance event coming upon a program discussing books whilst driving with my mom. In Denmark there’s not a whole lot of radio programs that discuss books, especially not while the sun is still up. But looking at that wide spine, recognizing that name from the radio, Chabon, I knew I had to have it. It was a funky color. I had a vinyl on the front. Telegraph Avenue would become my introduction to Michael Chabon, whether this lady beside me thought it appropriate or not. I looked down at the book, flipped it over a few times, mesmerized, then said without looking at her, I like difficulty.

To this day I still believe she was in the store to buy the book herself, and was trying to talk me out of buying the last copy right in front of her nose. But I could be wrong.

After Moonglow I needed something quick for the in-between-days in the week of Christmas-New Years. I had been gifted John Green’s new book Turtles All The Way Down at Christmas, and knowing Green’s books to be fast delights, I picked it up. It was nice, quick, philosophical (dangerously so, letting me feel like I was doing philosophy reading this book, pushing back my start on the thesis project), and funny as always. It did lack some of the charm of his earlier books, though. It’s a well-meaning book, and it deals with illness/quirkiness in a better way than his other books do. But there’s something lacking. Some… magic touch that isn’t really there. I find it hard to put into words what it is, and I find it equally difficult to develop a stable attitude to it. I’m not quite sure what I think of it. It’s good, but not great.

Lastly I’ve just spent the best part of a week reading The Long Way To a Small, Angry Planet. Color me amazed! Gosh, I loved every page of this space opera. Becky Chambers has really done something quite outstanding with this little, spacious adventure! I tried to will myself to only read it in the evening before going to bed, but in the end I had to spend most of my time with the book, either in my hands, reading, or in my thoughts as I took a walk, tried to read something else, made breakfast, anything. This book has put itself deep into my heart, and it’s only because I’m finally nearing a deadline for a thesis contract that I haven’t already started on the follow-up, A Closed and Common Orbit, currently sitting on my shelf like a good boy, waiting for me to tell it to come out to play! Not as dense as Chabon, and not the same smoothness of every line that Chabon shows, Chambers still managed to put a truly well-crafted story together. I was smitten by the universe (pun intended), and believing one hundred percent in the multi-species network, and I love how she makes humans the newcomer in the intra-galactic society. While being a tremendously funny story, she manages to make some philosophical and political remarks that are hidden enough to not color the book, but obvious enough that readers will catch on to it and put down the book at moments to think about current life on Earth compared to the life presented in The Long Way..

The last assignment I did (my last assignment ever, before turning loose this thesis beast) was an exploration of sci-fi (literature and movies) as forms of social critique. In my assignment I focused on Fahrenheit 451 and Blade Runner (Final Cut), analysing them separately and comparing the ways they provide social commentary. Sci-fi has been the main road for me the past few years. I still read a lot of other stuff as well, but to me sci-fi has something extremely special, and I think it’s this way of being able to comment on current society without really commenting on current society. In that regard it’s the most daring genre in my eyes. The great writers of it are able to take advantage of the opportunities that arise when you put your society into a new age or a new place, where you can develop settings that at first glance seem bewildering and far out, but gradually shows itself to be extremely close to our own society, opening our eyes for the problematic features of our own systems. That’s a reason why sci-fi is currently my favorite genre. That and space, of course. Space is the place.

…okay, so, I’ve gone beyond 2,000 words with this post. And I’ve successfully used up all my evening on it, rendering it impossible for me to start working on my thesis contract now. Promise to myself: I’ll get up early tomorrow to work on it there before having a meeting concerning it later in the day.

Luckily it’s still just early enough for me to steal a few moments listening to my newest obsession. The Blue Nile. Apparently an old Scottish band, who I’ve only just heard of. Been all kinds of lost in their music the last two days. That perfect vibe on the edge of the 80s and 90s where thoughts were meant to linger, words were allowed to be drawn out, the music was permitted to emit feelings while the singer takes a break. Very alike Talk Talk of that period, unafraid of letting the songs surpass the six-minute mark. Oh, this is my chance to come full circle with my very first post on this blog: Sigur Rós was probably the band that ruined me from a young age, getting me to expect bands to take time on songs, give me as a listener time to really feel the song, to fall in love with it. So few bands do this, at least few bands who at the same time make this wonderful kind of pop music that is truly at the heart of The Blue Nile and Talk Talk and The Cure and My Bloody Valentine and all those great bands, even to some degree Sigur Rós.

I had sort of run aground lately, finding it hard to find new music of this caliber when these guys suddenly pop up in a review for a remaster of their 1989 album Hats that, for all I can gather, must have been re-released around 2013. Such a weird thing, seeing a review for that now. But I’m nonetheless grateful to have found them. They’ve eased my transition from reading about space to try to write a down-to-earth thesis.

Working night and day
I try to get ahead
Working night and day
Don’t make no sense
Walk me into town
The ferry will be there
To carry us away into the air

(The Blue Nile: “Over the Hillside”) Okay, maybe this is too ethereal to really put me back down to earth. But I’m not complaining. After all, I’m at my best when my feet are swept off the ground.


Spaces left.

There’s always a you and a me in all this mess. Sometimes there even really isyou. But the me, the I, is forever floating, fleeting, unable to be pinned down by nails, hands, grips or the sky darkening above.

I could say it is a search, but that implies action. I could say it is a question, but that implies asking. I could say it was delusion, but I’m far too clear-headed for that.

And so I keep not watering my plants. And I keep not combing my hair. Because I hope some other I will take care of all that. And so I let the future come and go, as unnoticed as a gust of wind, only rattling the leaves on trees we don’t speak of.

But even the wind is never more invisible than the broken fingers on the trees, and the future creates ruptures in the magic field we call worldlife. There’s just a simple choice to not notice before it’s gone.

There are bread crumbs left from all the yous. They show up in every word; both the real yous and the imagined ones. But I never dare to follow them back; fear I might see what I left behind. Or some other I.

Think nothing of me tonight, except for the motions of my fingers, as they reach for something resembling truth.

When did the air become impenetrable to advances? When did the great horn of heaven stop playing its tune for man?

There once was a dream of an endless ocean, and I could sail my ship forever, forever bathed in sunlight and joy, direct or reflected off the silver moon.

The ocean has dried out.

The ocean has dried out.

Desolation & Love Stories.

And there comes a point in life, when all you do is think, but feel like you can’t get through to your thoughts. When the people shouting out on the street might as well be voices in your head, keeping you from yourself. Could it be a safeguard against self-harm? Could it be exhaustion?

Could it be love?

My heart has been even more reckless this year than usual.

But I know better than to let you go.

It’s been one intense period of smiles and laughter after the other. It’s been birthday cakes with candles on fire, it’s been a never-ending stream of love and desire, without ever really reaching that wonderfully wicked feeling where everything comes together and you realize you might be good; but with that special other you’re so much better.

Looking around I find myself caught up in pillows and past.

Listening to all our music. That’s why your teenage loves fill so much: they color your music collection in lilac and love. Every sentence drips with the liquid of redeveloped images. When I sat on your stomach and suddenly began singing along to the music, “The color you say is black/Is the one you might lack,” and you started laughing with your teeth showing, asking me if I had suddenly become a singer? And I said no, and everything was so hilarious and surreal, because I couldn’t stop singing, while sitting on your stomach, my hands exploring your breasts in the dark of night, until I eventually laid down on you and shut myself up with your lips. That was the first night we made love.

I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
The high won’t fade here, babe
No, the high won’t hurt here, babe

I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
Where the highs won’t bring you down, babe
No, the highs won’t hurt you there, babe

(Lykke Li: I Know Places) I always fail to understand the drive to live on. I don’t know if my makeup is different from most other people’s. For me, living is a tool to make living bearable. I’m able to have 5 or 6 now-moments a year, I think. Everything else I do is nostalgia. Those are the places I visit, where the highs live on as the highs they were. A retreat from the nows that didn’t become now’s. They are the memories I wake up to as well as being my lullabies, when I remember to remember them. Sometimes I just walk around as an empty canister without film.

Sometimes I long for you, and sometimes I don’t.

Here you will realize I’m talking about times as well as persons; that I have a habit of entwining the entities and creating labyrinths so I have new places to get lost. Whether I despise clarity or carditis is beside the point. My attitude shifts, and around that revolves my entire world. You’re in it. Then you’re not. And it doesn’t really matter, ’cause it’s the same with me. I often leave and expect never to return. I wish I could keep that promise someday. I wish I could escape through loopholes with love.

Four years in the making.

My head is a mess. It’s all over the place and nowhere at the same time. My fingers are frozen. It’s winter and terribly so. My BA project is due in twenty days. And I haven’t started writing it yet. I keep reading and rereading my literature, and it’s slowly dawning on me: perhaps I just don’t really understand this subject as well as I hoped I would. It’s terrifying: trying to write about something you don’t know anything about. I want to see the connections – I want to understand how the world functions and how we perceive it. I want to do this project. But at the same time I keep blocking myself from it with things that I can only participate in half-heartedly. My mind is constantly telling me that I need to pull myself together, that I need to do this. I’m going to a concert tonight, and I’m really excited about it because I’m going with her. But I also know that the projects will be on both our minds. Our conversations have grown tense in the last couple of days as December is coming ever closer. Maybe I’m expressing too much affection. I probably am. But I just really like watching movies with her, and going to concerts with her, and drinking hot beverages with her, and getting a buzz on with her, and waking up in her bed with her. What I’m saying is that I just really like her.

I knew I wanted her when she wore her VETO hoodie. I had suspected it earlier; the whole me-wanting-her concept. Especially when she cut her hair short like all the actresses I dreamt about ever since I got old enough to start dreaming about actresses. They say it’s the small things. There’s some truth to that, but the small things are just not all that small for very long once you notice them. They turn into the most dominant feature of a person, even if they’re just accidental traits. Like the way she looks completely nonplussed anytime you say something she doesn’t quite hear. Or the extremely goofy voice she uses when something is just a teeny bit nerdy. Or how she gets completely paralyzed whenever she has to make a decision. All those little things that you only really notice once you start spending your life with someone, or just fall for them really hard, are what make up the person in your eyes. It’s no longer about appearance or social skills – I should hope not, since my social skills got lost somewhere in 3rd grade – but small pieces that come together to form a whole. And yet it was a piece of clothing that made the difference between contemplating and knowing: that I wanted her. Punctuation style. I. Wanted. Her. I was ready to give up the world for her then, because of something silly like her wearing the perfect band merch.

Now it’s more than four years since the VETO hoodie epiphany, but this is the first time when being with her has really seemed like a possibility. Except: now we’re such good friends that I’m afraid of taking her hand in mine. I’m afraid of looking in her eyes, fearing that I can’t not kiss her. I still want the big movie-kind of love. At least now I’m down to only having eyes for her and not falling for every single girl who walks past me or who lives in my past. But I’ve been burning bridges and I no longer know who to turn to if this ends up going down the drain. I really should wait till December, when the BA project is out-of-the-way and my head is less of a mess, but if the mood is right tonight (who decides when the mood is right?) I don’t think I can help myself from making a move. She makes me so happy, and all I want to do is be around her as much as possible.

Now I absolutely have to get started on the project. I need to write a page before tonight. At the very least.

Right after I’ve taken a cold winter walk with my dog.

Borderline misery.

Remind me to pull through. On days when the world is too big and too grey and too small and too bright, remind me to pull through. Tell me there’s a new day tomorrow that’s worth waking up for, and dreams tonight that are worth falling asleep for. Tell me there’s still obtainable beauty in the world when everything around me seems so very unattainable. I just need to hear your voice, after having fled all other voices throughout the day. I just need to stare into your green, green eyes and see that all I hold dear is still right here. I just need you so much closer than this. And I want to be 16 again. And I want to be 35. And I want to be at a place in time where I feel alive. Do you still remember our future agreement? The one that made me put my whole life on hold; the one that’s still got its hold on me. Whenever I’m writing a song, you’re both the words and the melody. Passing through me, passing time. Clearly I haven’t let go, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now. Why can’t you just be here now. So many days like this. Have only put 20 spoken words into the stream of human noise. So many days like this, where I don’t speak to no one. So many days where all my conversations are with you without you. So many days. Remind me to pull through before I start counting and counting down till the day I’m in the ground. Wind was so cold today it tore right through my clothes, and I let it: to feel something, something other than me making me feel me. Something other than you making me shiver. And I want to be 16 again. And I want to be 35. And I want to go back in time and put away your knife. Today I see how much you still mean to me. Today I long for your company, for you to show me that I’m still in your life. I need your words, your voice, your eyes, your scarred lips. I need your frightened nature, your insecurity, your friendship, your love. I need you like you need to breathe. I’m scared, and I want to walk around with you.

Beautiful destruction.

Still haven’t figured out the reasons for my loving relationship with the end of the world. Finally bought a PS4 and of course the two first games I play through center around some kind of apocalypse or imminent disaster. I don’t know what it is about those things, but they tend to speak to me, they draw me in, make me want to be part of whatever might come of it. It might be for balance. I’m so in love with beauty that it’s impossible for me not to love the destruction of it as well. There’s just something about the tearing down of the perfect. How it leaves room for new things, and creates melancholy for what once was. How destruction in itself is a beautiful act. Even the least productive of destructions, like breaking a rock in two, leaves the beautiful insides of the rock exposed. I do believe destruction can be mindless and outright stupid. But even the mindlessly stupid destruction offers thoughts about the destroyed, and the re-imagining of things. I think that pretty well sums up one part of my love for the apocalypse, how the ending of one thing is always the beginning of something else. Of course, that might not be true on a universal scale. Oh how vast the distances of my thoughts. Sometimes I do want to spoil the mystery and take a peek from one end of the universe to the other.  I want to know infinity. I’ll meditate on that tonight, the image of infinity, the traveling through space. I’ll look for clues wherever I go, I won’t miss a thing. I’ll just stay there, and pretend the apocalypse happened on Earth and I caught the last space shuttle out of there. I’ll just pretend it’s me all alone, as I did when I was 10 years younger than now. I envy that guy who could just zone the world out at night and be completely at peace. But I want to shake him, and shout at him, and tell him to live his life differently. And hope he still ends up as the same person. And I want him to see everything there is to see, from end to beginning. And I want him to know that this world really tries to do him good.

Disappearing invisibility.

Come on, stupid. We’re walking! We have to get out of here. You know as well as I that things start happening once we cross the lights. We just have to get there, and we absolutely have to get moving now to get there. All those dreams you’ve been talking about all night, look – I really like them. I really like it when you share those things with me. It makes me feel like we’re one person. I really want us to be that, you know? I want you to be me, and me to be you. But for now, stop talking. Start running. We’re already far too late, and it’s only getting worse by the minute. No, the party can’t start without us: we ARE the party. You know that. Without us, there is no party. But the party can’t start here.

There are few things as pretty as walking through a city just before dawn. When all the streetlights are on, when everything is so quiet, the water so still, and it’s just me and the road ahead. It didn’t matter much that I didn’t have any music with me this morning when I came home. I was too tired for music anyway. The quietness only added to the experience of being all alone in the world. Just me and the thoughts of people I was with a few hours earlier. I love having my cellphone around for times like those. Not to call anyone, but to take pictures of the lights. I really love lights in pictures. And sending them to you.

It’s amazing how quickly your main-group of friends can change. I don’t know if that says more about me or the world. Maybe both, but I have never had a problem with changing friends. Over the last 5 years, I’ve had 5 separate main-groups of friends, and some of my best friends on the side, not in any group. I move on quite easily when going from one group to the next. The hard times are when I’m in-between groups. When I’ve finished an education and people have moved while I’ve stayed in the same place. But that’s where the importance of those great friends outside of the groups comes in. And those friends are the hardest to lose, I’ve learnt. I miss you every day, but it’s your call.

We’re invisible! But not for much longer, so hurry, we’re almost there. Just pretend you’re on something that makes you go, go, go. I’ll let you have some of me. Here; feel better? Feel stronger? We can do this! Just follow the lights to the lights! Just follow me, and let me follow you, and us follow each other! The world NEEDS us! If our invisibility doesn’t do it, nothing will! Stop that nonsense, we ARE invisible, don’t you know that? Can you see my soul? See.

I wish you’d answer more often, but sometimes I guess you wish that about me as well. It’s just that now we’ve come to a more ‘real’ phase in this back-and-forth questioning. It’s no longer so hypothetical, so common. It’s more about you and me; it’s more about greeting you and meeting me, and vice versa.

My guitar is looking at me sadly these days. I really don’t play enough. This self-teaching thing was easier when my friend was still living nearby. Being able to record with him and play on his electric guitar made me focus on getting better. I wanted to show him something new every time. Now that factor is gone and I only get to record with him very seldom, it’s hard to get myself to pick up that sad guitar, what with philosophy, other literature, music and movies to compete with. Playing an instrument where I’m pretty stuck at the moment doesn’t seem to win very often. It might just be time for me to learn a few new things on the web, just to get past this halt. Yeah. I think I’ll do that later tonight.

Isn’t it a pity? I would love it if we could be invisible to anyone but each other. But it seems there’s no way around it. Invisibility is disappearing to everyone. Well, we can just wait, of course. At some point you’ll notice my invisibility disappearing, and I’ll see yours just the same. Yes, that’s when we’ll be able to get to where we’ve wanted to go all evening. That’s why we have to make it. It’s for our eyes only, right? You for me, I for you. Our souls are too dark for this lit-up city to see.

This is a bit embarrassing: as of this moment, I’m listening to M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming for the very first time, even though my most trusted music-friend hyped it all over me back when it was released. One of the few things I never really gave a chance. Hopefully because I was too caught up in something else at the time (it might have been Chromatics, in which case it’s totally defendable). But this is really extremely good. Just wrote him. Telling him of my sudden idea of listening to them, which came from my coolest friend who’s currently in California saving all kinds of nature. Let me use this time to praise the internet: I can talk to her everyday, I can listen to Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming as soon as she has posted an M83 track on our music blog, I can stream movies legally, I can get news on subjects that interest me through twitter, I can keep a ‘diary’ right here that doesn’t take up any space. So many great things have come from the internet. Hear Hear, I sing thy praise!

Today I got confirmation that my order on a bunch of used books had been shipped. I can’t wait to get them, hopefully during my days off so I’m here to take them when the mailman comes. There’s a bunch of Kerouac in there, and some Hunter S. Thompson and other great books. I feel like it was about time I started buying used books. Actually, I should have begun doing it ages ago, ever since I learned of the possibility. I would probably have done it sooner, if only Danish vintage stores sold English/American books. They only sell books in Danish. If you do happen to find an English one, it’s either Harry Potter or Shakespeare, which is cool, but I need more than that. So, another hooray for the internet. I don’t know when I will get time to read them, though. Or, just in-between my philosophy literature, I suppose. Still haven’t started reading those big Fitzgerald and Dickens collected work books I bought about a month ago. I guess I just really like to make sure I have something to read once I get the time to read it.

We’re here! We’re here! Look, we made it! Wow… look at this place. I don’t think anyone has been here for years. It’s even scarier than I remembered it. Stay close. How can anything come from here? I know they say that from the bad rises the good, but this seems too dark a place for anything good to come from. I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit. We should never have come here. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see this. I didn’t think it would look like this. I didn’t… why did you do that? Why did you… but?

I’ve always had a hard time finding out how I write best. You know; what environment; what light-setting; computer or paper; quiet or music; day or night; sober or drunk; before or after I’ve watched a movie; before or after I’ve read a book. I think it’s come down to the happy fact that I can write in any condition. It’s just a matter of setting my mind to it. If my mind’s not in it, there’s no reason for me to be writing anything at all. I just need to get better at setting my mind to it. Just as I need to be better at setting my mind to anything. Too often I just drift off into daydreams I don’t even remember for later usage in my writings. That’s just waste. Though, of course, those insane daydreams might be what keeps me sane at the end of the day.

Naturally, after my last blog post, I haven’t had those great crazy dreams. And I’ve found a cure for my ear (ear drops, yeah!). But I still find myself focussed as ever. Hopefully this means that I’ve just learned to set my mind to this. Last night I told my new group of friends about my interest in writing, and – which seems more personal – about my interest for poetry and my wanting to become a published poet. They were really awesome about it. We found out that most of us actually wanted to do some kind of ‘creative’ thing, and most of us saw philosophy as a means to either find out what we wanted, or to inspire us in our daily hunt for that creative shot. I think I’ve found the right group. Again.

I never thought anyone would kiss my soul.