This is a bit of a private one, but:
I have been writing since age 7.
I have called myself a poet between ages 7 and 17.
Now I am 27, calling myself a poet again, one language later.
I’ve only been writing when I had to. Perversely, I was proud of it. I thought to myself, I only write when I have to, when I can’t hold onto the scream anymore. I write about breakups, I pull out the journal when I’m in pain or joy that cannot be ignored. I manage to not write anything else.
And then I thought, are you crazy?
Not only I get in trouble, emotions exploding, because everything in me overloading, overbalances and in certain circumstances I get a shitload of anger, tears, a breakdown that was completely preventable.
Not only I get ideas that scream to get out and I let them fade and die, like an insult to anybody who ever suffered any sort of creative block.
I wondered, how exactly can I be useful to people? This narcissistic exploration of own head liniment, lining, lines left behind by childhood, personal borders, orders of magnitude, interludes of thought, attitudes towards life – often dearly bought and paid, but not useful in the present day anymore….?
I can tell stories. I can tell the truth.
That’s all it takes.
Yes, it’s nothing new, but I am struck sometimes by the sheer stupidity and unwillingness to see that I discover in myself. I’m not even putting myself down – the blinds on my eyes exist for a reason. I’ve been a truthsayer since day one. I made a lot of people uncomfortable. And they made sure I was uncomfortable with myself. And believed them – I did the believing.
I’ll be leaving now – that mindset, that is. I might adjust this text yet, I might change it. But telling the truth, that one does not get old.
So many texts that wait for publication. The right moment. The permission I now give myself.
Are you crazy?
Yes, I am.