here I am, fucking middle of the night trying to write and just as probably I am going to come up with another couple of shitty pages. nothing to say, nothing that anybody wants to hear anyway and no style, without style you get nowhere according to Charles Buckowski, so this here is going to be all about style.
this whole week has been rotten. Just got back from Amsterdam, right back to hell. I know some people would say it's not all that bad atleast it's not child labor on some stinking ship out on the water in Thailand, but to me it's my own personal hell. I am getting this all wrong already, to write something meaningful I have to stop whining and crying and putting out my own fucked up points of view. If I am going to make an effort to write, it must come out pure and true, just like it's happening. no need for any additinal emotion's or crazy fantasies, just the cold hard facts. style I can always add later on, got to work on the purity of my content right now.
but that's hard I am so used to living a fucked up version of events and circumstances in my head that I can't even be clear in my head. my family, the bunch of cocksuckers that they are have fucked with my ideas and beliefs so much that now even I scoff at them, it's hard even to express myself on this paper, typing the words and trying to convince myself that they will hold any meaning to anyone, when even I am sceptical.
To be free, that all I always wanted, right back to high school, to be pure in my thoughts, to see things as they are and even when all my childhood ideas were shattered, my innocence shatterd by the cruelties and the hard rough surface of the world, I still believed wanted to believe that things could be better if only I believed in it myself. that people could be nice to each other that my parents could see that money is not what it's all about, not just money, position, power and all that goes with it, but the main thing being to be pure and nice to other people, being humble and seeking those ideas and actions which further us all as human beings. an utopian ideology I know, but I wanted to try at the very least, give it a fucking shot, if I/we failed at least we would go to our graves happy with the satisfactions of knowing we tried.
how many times daily do I not remind myself, it's not what we achieve the end result that counts but how we live every second/every minute of our lives, in love, peace and harmony with ourselves or in hate, hating every thing we do hating ourselves our surroundings projecting that shit on everyone and everything until the whole world our very existence is one big piece of shit and we sit surrounded coccooned in this piece of shit and seek justification in it of our own rotten outlook.
if I can ever strip myself of this shitty outlook and be clear and clean in myself, then I would not probably write like us. I would write about what could be and what should be, but not straight up like this all cold and cereberal, but with that special ingredient without which nothing would work, love, passion, a feeling something coming from the heart, illogical in its being and structure, something we can't explain, don't even try to explain, it just is and I would like to fill my stories with this love.
despair is another motif I might try in my stories, because I have already felt it's effects first hand and so has everyone else I am sure, maybe I would have other emotions also , I guess the art of storytelling is to let everything seep through, but it needs an angle because I sure as hell am not omniprescient, I don't know everything and I think if I was able to keep that in mind I might be able to write something good, but then again I need to be myself to project my ego on to the paper and into the story, to let not only my ideas but also by inner soul scream out it's frustrations onto this medium. who said a story has to be perfect, that it has to be perfectly crafted like Papillon's life adventure, like many other great books and novels.
I am striving to be like them, I wish my end product was as good, and maybe it will be but I want my stories to be unique in themselves and not just in content but more importantly in spirit. for right now I am in a contest with all the writers I admire, I want to be one up on them, to be like the sage in the forest who sits cross legged on a plane plain of grass, looks far away into the horizon and then writes down his exalted and supremely full of wisdom thoughts on to the paper. this inner sage of mine he's like a rock, he couldn't care less that he's hungry or that it's cold or that there's a lion prowling about all he cares about is the paper and the pen and the words being scribbled out like new born babies drying with the slight wind sinking like great sculpture into the stone, through the Earth, into other people's hearts resounding like a trumpet in the air, broadcast as if it were into heaven and earth and for sure into space where they go exploding god knows where into galaxies and supernovas and blackholes, but the sage he's still there scribbling away, the hand moving the pen, the will moving the hand and the will being moved by, god only knows, because that deep down there's no philosophy no words which can explain ......