Not the first time
Yeah first time here though
This is not the first time I am writing. And very likely, it won’t be the last.
Whatever I write, whatever I try to explain, words will be the uncompleted description of a part of me. Let me do my best to explain this at least.
As “Anil”, I experience things comes into front view of my perception and many others that I never even notice. Me and my subconscious come across from time to time for sure but always with a limited access. But I am not going to bore you with the same old Freudian shit.
Even this is not close enough to what I mean when I say “things I wrote does not describe me”. The process of writing requires certain amount of will, desire and possibility of leisure. There are certain things that can ignite the inspiration for writing. These flames vary from one to another and surely to me, that inspiration can be summarized as: NOT. GOOD. NEWS.
It is not that I don’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders when I am not inspired for writing, on the contrary: there are many times that “it is not good news” to me and let writing stay aside, I cannot leave my bed. What I truly mean is that there is a certain type of, a very limited type of, state that gives me the flame for writing. Yes, it is a negative state for my case. But that’s not my exact point. I am saying; this is where you capture the reflection of “Anil”. This is what you like/hate when you hear one of my songs. Thinking about how fucking small part of me is shared with you, makes me feel like I am losing it. It makes me feel so alone. As said before, even process of writing is the beginning of a negative feeling inside of me, and here I come to realization of how alone I am within the process of writing. Join me in the irony. (your short break for a breakdown ends here).
Don’t let me leave before simplifying my bubbling lava. I feel good (yeah shocking right? I know) and bad. I only write while feeling bad. But not any bad, a certain type of bad. Most of the times that I feel this, I am too busy to create (probably jerking off). All the other parts of me stays with me. Most of the time I don’t even have access to them. For you dumb fucks, here. Simplified verison. Enjoy the rest of your precious time (probably jerking some other dumb fuck off. at least I jerk myself off). And if you think, writing of the past experiences, where I had any other feeling then this specific inspirational moment, is a marvelous option to reflect: please read the previous few sentences.
Anyways, the limited version of me within a limited version of my consciousness still seems reasonable enough to me to share with the rest. Even though I know the majority of me will remain as a puzzle, there is only one thing that can leave a space for us to breathe. And it is to share whatever I can, whenever I can, in a form that is possible to my very own experience. Why does it makes sense? Why to share anything?
Don’t ask me. I am just a guy who is still breathing while seeing the decomposed image of himself at a six feet distance.