ON WRITING

(wiersz oryginalnie po angielsku, nie tłumaczony)

ON WRITING

(Human regrets, human life – and what it means to not be laconic)

When it comes to writing, no words are inherently mine. Even if I think they are, but most often I know they’re not. All writing comes from inspiration, and inspiration means quotes that don’t belong to us. So, if I were to write on writing, I would start with quotes. Or rather… No, not quotes. First, a dedication.

To my dearest. (I don’t have anyone who I call that, but big writers dedicate to their dearest, and so will I!)

Now..

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there. And since I used up my copyright-free quote, may I explain what that means to me? For one, the words are mine, even if I wrote it off social media. Because it resonates with me deeply. Anything that let’s you resonate with itself is yours. Even people, despite that becoming illegal a few years back. Nonetheless, the morning after I’d take my life, nothing would be different. I don’t think anyone would mourn me, truly. But a few days later a funeral would happen. I’d hope the people closest to me would laugh. But someone would weep, and I would be there. Just not with body, not even with mind. With soul I’d be there to hear it.

I don’t know what I’d feel, believe me or not, I haven’t experienced it yet.

To those who died yesterday,

….

Thank you for listening, that’s all I had to say to them. If I died this evening, the next morning would be just as quiet, believe me. Now that I’ve experienced.

I killed myself that day.

I didn’t hang off the ceiling or drown on the floor in red. Nah, not like that. I killed myself with no funeral, no casket and no mourners. It happened the day I met up with my friends, laughed with them and loved with them. It happened when I was walking back home, alone, listening to music alone, engulfed with the sound of nothing. I might’ve aswell been just ascending to heaven at that point.

I don’t mourn the girl who killed herself that day.

I died many times after and before that. Perhaps I will die once again today, or rather die once and for all today, you never know.

My dearest. My dear. Such loving nicknames, they carry so much fondness, so much love. But what about a deer. My dearest, my dear deer. With a TIKKA T3X LITE aiming at your brains, while your mother knows bullets are quicker than feet, and she begs in deer that the target is her, and not her dearest deer.

Gosh, if that made me tongue tied.

I want someone to be afraid of loosing me more than I fear dying. I didn’t meet anyone like that yet, and sometimes I wonder… Good God, what IS wrong with me?

I’ve always wanted to be laconic. To those under informed, it means “someone able to convey much with few words”. But im a writer, that doomed me from the beginning. Maybe If I were laconic, someone would fear loosing me, because they’d like to hear more from me.

But no, I talk lots, I write lots, clearly. I can’t seem to shut up. In no way am I laconic or irenic or any of the pretty words. Perhaps I am callow. Redundant. Selcouth, in the bad meaning. I feel limerence, but am I ever a subject of it, or rather just ustulation?

A little girl, about nine years old, wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. She had short hair and was hated by everyone around for being loud, arrogant and weird. I’m loud, self conscious and weird. My hair is still kind of short.

If someone didn’t get the memo, the nine year old is me.

And she also wondered what was wrong with her, because no girl in her class hung out with her, and then laughed at her for sitting with a nine year old boy. Really funny, isn’t it?

On writing,

Dear writing,

Deer writing,

If it wasn’t for you, I would be normal, I would be laconic, I would be liked, and maybe my hair would be longer. Dear writing, if it weren’t for you, perhaps I’d be pink. Know why?

My favourite colours are red, blue and green.

You can be the most radiant shade of blue, the most earthy shade of green and the deepest shade of red, but no matter how beautiful you are in those colours, you are nothing to someone whose favourite colour is pink.

On my dearest writing.

I have human regrets of not ending my life and not writing more (less).

To my dearest. Am I a big writer now?