I cannot write any more

I simply cannot write any more. I do not want to write. There is nothing much left to say or a cry to yell. Neither I want to read any fiction or poem. It is only solving problems that now has become my interest: to get to the bottom of matters. It is other kind of books that has taken my attention now.

A dark side, a dichotomy, which always has been a companion to me seems now to be fading away. I used to feel myself quite as a werewolf and in order to feel a reality a centre inside I used to cling to this werewolf and to identify myself with; I used to rely on what was basically only a half- a weak delicate half, to avoid being lost. This dark side is at a same time seems to representing both a suffering and the only possible source of goodness[?] which is struggling to emerge. Is this dark side, with all it's darkness, really deserting me? Is this tiresome struggling- this repetetive cycle of modes and events going to subside? A world full of threats and distrust towards the Other, with constant imagined reproaches for every little or big thing, with basically no sense of friendship and intimacy. A "self"(now perhaps my "self") which was deprived of love, mainly due to it's being stupid, little. A love that could give a full feeling of being accepted and for the self to spoil itself in it. All these seem to be leaving me I think(or is it not?), and in strides specially after getting to now D. who generously gave all together what in this sense I was after.

Meeting Harry

It was Saturday morning and on the way to Harry's' flat I thought about going to a different place this time. I parked the car on his road and had a look on the near parks in Worthing. Harry came quickly. I asked him whether he knew the one, which looked rather big, behind the hospital not far from the pier. He said no but that he could direct me there. We drove there. The weather wasn't cold but windy. Harry, as soon as he saw a man in short sleeves, said it load "someone on short sleeves in this weather!".

Christmas with E.

It is Thursday morning and I have arrived at Stuttgart airport. I walk out of the departures zone finding my way to the coach to Karlsruhe. Arrival time is when I usually think about time: no matter how passionate or impatient I am at the beginning or sad by the end of the trip, it paces carelessly and unconcerned to my world. I have forgotten to print out the ticket. The German speaking driver after matching my passport name with the one on his cell phone, let me get in. In an hour, which I passed it mostly in sleep, we reach at Karlsruhe central station. Despite the fact that the driver did call the stop name I am determined to ask again where we are but then I gave it up and turned back to hear a familiar voice calling my name. I saw E. in a purple jacket, kisses and embraces her; she is thiner and slimmer than a year ago. We took a train to her flat through the town. The look of the city had quite changed compare to last year same time. Refugees, many of whom speaking in my mother tongue from the neighbour country, were all over the town, in groups of young people in black jackets with their loud voices, almost shouting. The kind of language they use and the look of them suggested to me that they possibly are far from the values of this culture; rather in contrast and that it might take both sides long to come into a peaceful coexistence.

I found it much harder to write when I feel good, when I am content with myself.

When eyes are silent I find nothing to write about.

I couldn't hold my tongue once more

I wish all consequences of what I said, of what I carelessly wrote to her last night in spite of all warnings and symptoms I felt, were confined entirely to my own world alone; such that the other would not be affected by it at all. Such that if I was to expose myself to her, which I never ever should do it again, she would have taken it with a smile wondering what the heck I am talking about. But now this thought is merely what consoles me though impossible, impossible. No matter how much, the consequences will leak my world and affect the other and will reveal itself in time.

I couldn't hold my tongue once more. I couldn't restrain myself in what had to be kept silently within. I could have just been content with what she had written on her email, been content, in the long nights of loneliness, with this sweet thought that a dear one thought is with me. I could simply not.

A week ago I imagined taking my mum to this cafe and that, showing her this country town where I live and passing through the old allies and sitting on the balcony late at night drinking tea together. I desired an intimacy. Today she has arrived. Now I feel as cold and lost as before.

It never leaves me. This constantly changing mysterious force would never leave me. It is busy doing it's own job and I am pursuing my own interest, running away from my death in every single act. Perhaps I am deceiving myself by imagining that a permanent good would come out of it. Perhaps it's a disease and I am just imperfect and the nature simply hasn't done the job right. So that I might as well never be complete and on this beginning and end have to consent to my(or rather this) lot knowing that I am only a tiny little toy in the whole process throughout the universe from an infinite past to an infinite future, this infinitely stretched moment and yet there is a responsibility.