This is not going to be great literature – Shakespeare, Goethe, Proust. Nothing like that. This might turn out to be confusing, lacking coherence, the thread that teachers are always looking for in students’ essays. But I don’t care, really. As long as, at the end of this, a couple of words will have found their way out of my mind or my mouth or whatever is keeping them in, I’ll be content.
Because there are so many of them. They are fluttering around in my head and heart like tiny moths and they’re gnawing on anything they can find. They’re keeping me awake, while at the same time, they’re having me daydreaming. They usually come in groups, they’re no lonesome travelers. They travel in stories or theories – things I remember, things I don’t talk about, things I want to talk about. I could fill a notebook from cover to cover. And then another one. I would like to be shouting all these things at the top of my lung. I would like to be shouting right now.
But nothing comes out.
I’m staring at computer screens and keyboards and nothing, except for worn phrases, clichés, ramblings: Once upon a time, there was an ugly duckling that dreamed of being a beautiful swan and of being allowed to eat nothing but cake day-in and day-out and drink chocolate milk, but it was lactose-intolerant, the poor little chick and this and that and some more and blah and blah blah and the end. I’m staring at a white piece of paper and still nothing, except for some scribblings: a nice house with a lawn, and oh so beautiful flowers, and apple trees and clouds and rain and I’m afraid a thunderstorm is coming up in the back of the picture. I have a few beginnings, a few sentences for maybe some middle parts, but that’s about it. No endings. I get stuck all the time and I don’t know why.
And I really love to write.
I always did write. I’ve written since I knew how to properly hold a crayon – all I did write then, of course, was my name followed by a couple of letter-like hieroglyphs. Still. And a lot of the time, writing was my home. I lived in my writing. I spilled my deepest darknesses onto paper when I couldn’t take them anywhere else. I made up silky sweetnesses to hide in when I couldn’t turn anywhere else. It’s my home. It’s the one friend that knows me entirely, because with people, I find it even harder to get the words out. I don’t know how to talk about things – so I write about them. Now, I don’t even do that. I’m stuck. I’m stuck with this thing that I love and that seems to be all there is. And maybe, that’s the problem.
There’s too much at stake, there’s too much pressure, too much tension. Things don’t come easy anymore when the pressure builds up too high.
Then you can do one of two things: You can try and try and try to make it work again – or turn your back on them.