Writing journal Oct 29 2015
Writing journal. Entry of October 29, 2015
I don’t know what got into me a few months ago when I thought that writing again was a good idea. I have added one more thing to my life to haunt me at night. Every now and then I find myself making excuses for not having sat down in front of this old laptop to write. And then the most powerful of all my selves shouting in the ears of my consciousness: What for! Who cares about your writing! One more piece no one will ever read or remember! Who do you think you could be?! Go for a run and stop whining!
What a lousy entry for my writing journal. But it came that way. I will keep writing because I feel good when I do it, even if only once in a while. If it turns out that all it can be is a sort of therapy to survive the intricacies of my modern, middle class, fake life, so be it. Fighting and writing seems to be what keeps me sane.
I still miss other lives I had, and I believe sometimes I remember lives that didn’t happen. Like the one in which he came and stayed with us for a whole winter; we went sliding in the park and played chess in the dark afternoons. He was tall and always smiling. I hope that as I grow older, I can mix up events and be unsure of what happened and what didn’t – maybe then, some memories will be less painful, fading in the uncertainty of facts.
About writing: I have a project; I believe is about loneliness – I really, really don’t feel lonely – and the first steps felt quite easy and natural and now all is difficult and feels forced. However, since I am already an expert at abandoning projects, I will stick to it and see what happens. I will force myself to complete it, even if I end up hating it. I have great expectations that the experience will be an interesting one… Yes, like writing and fighting all together. Quite likely, in one of those lost lives, I was an MMA fighter and spent my old years writing about all my weird experiences. I became famous, and my nose was pretty messed up. I died happy, fulfilled and surrounded by grandchildren; my books are still out there and are read in some university writing courses.
Wow. If a journal is supposed to keep track of what actually happens, this really doesn’t seem to meet that criterion; or perhaps, it truly does… Because, what is it that happens but what I dream that did?