reading time: 2 minutes
I’m on the couch. I’m on the chair. That is not a convincing picture. And this is not a convincing piece. It started off as a translation of its counterpart blog opener in my native language, but it soon turns into a glorious mess.
Not sure how many times I attempted to start blogging again over the course of the past year and a half.
There goes my unofficial mantra, the Garbage song “Run Baby Run” and then – curiously enough – the one with the same name by Sheryl Crow, her debut single. I always change the first line to “She was born in March ninety eighty three, the day Hergé died” in my mind. I always think of a Serbian and Yugoslavian comic book trailblazer who lived here before my family moved in. And then, just like it happens to all people with attention deficit, I can feel my stream of thought becoming loose. I can no longer control it. It becomes a written analogy to the worst possible meals at childhood family gatherings, those that somebody with a good stomach would jumble together and slurp away.
Focus. Focus. Focus. If I talk about what I wish I had I am going to eventually master it, right? Wait. I won’t. That’s popular psychology akin to the motivational messages on tampon packs.
Maybe I use the said lack of focus as an excuse, semi-consciously?
Knowing myself, I sure do. Yep.
For the past couple of years I’ve had trouble saying what I think, feel and what I notice. What betrays me are the moments when I think before acting, my clumsiness and similar nonsense. And I think I’m missing words as they are. You can shape them into whatever you want to. You can get away with things. I used to. For years, saying whatever’s on my mind was a part of my everyday, ever since late 2001 when I had started my first blog.
And then, at some point, I realise that I do lose control sometimes and I delete posts that might have caused a stir.
Eventually, I ended up having issues with every single thing I wrote, regardless of how harmless it was. If there were no problems, I would convince myself of their inevitable existence. What if this or that stranger sees through you? What if they start analysing my posts? Bother me with unnecessary feedback? Leave me strange comments? Ask personal things?
I moved on to other forms of expression, but I really missed writing. There came a point when I stopped writing everything except poetry and those poems never saw light of the day. Every word felt like shame, shame, pure shame. Ironically, this started right after the period after it was near-impossible to perform the most basic of everyday tasks, including scribbling a random note to a friend.
Predictably, during the past two months of just wander around in circles, I had a bunch of ideas. So, here I am again. Maybe it lasts this time.
I love it when I end pieces abruptly.