I've been talking a lot about love lately, to others, to myself, to no one else. The fact is, love has been the greater preocupation in my life for some time. Amidst the whirlwind that my life has been it was a constant. What does it mean? How is it formed? When? Why? Do I still believe in it, do I still believe it was ever meant for me?
I was nineteen on Wednesday and I had intended on at least writing a birthday post but I was entertained by other more vain concerns. I've been reading a charming romantic novel about a young Egyptologist. The college settings, the passion for work, the fear of forming a relationship. I suppose I sympathized with the character. The scenes of first love... I think I sympathized with the writer. Yes I want to be loved too, like that, vous n'avez aucune raison de rougir, I want to fall back and be courted and feel very wanted. I want it to be as simple as that.
Of course it never really works like that, and I'm going to have to snap out of this one before attempting to become a candidate for the Nobel Literature Prize.
For the last few days I've been experiencing a strange sort of feeling. It's the simple realization that I have nothing more pressing to do than sit back, talk to my friends, read my books and write whatever I please. And so I try to create a new set of responsabilities, a new set of goals so I won't drift, so that I won't have to think about the inevitable. And now, what do you want to write about now?
Last night I fell asleep reading something I wrote fours years ago. It meant something, i was writing about something then, something I cannot quite recall then. It feels like I'm loosing precious time, every second, every breath in which the doubt still exists.
Violins, a beautiful violin as she sings. Where am I? Will I be here tomorrow? I feel so unreal.
I am listening to the Duvet Remix, slowly, beat, as if rising from within my chest, readying for the greater beats, for the final burst. I am falling, fading, drowning. Help me to breath. Not at all. I think I'm only half-alive, because when I am dying I feel very much alive, but now. What is my purpose, where do I go from here, once this terrible pain fades what do I do with my life? What do I mean? Tempo, tempo. Ooooooh. If I could write down what music means, what it does to the soul or the eyes, where music takes me. Drums more drums.
Where do I go from here?