It's hard to write. You have to be strong enough to own the fact that you consider your voice important enough to be heard. You have to be brave enough to acknowledge that you may well be writing utter rubbish. You have to delve, dig and dig some more.
I'm so angry. So sad. So happy. So depressed.
It's like therapy.
Even if you're writing a historical essay.
So a lot of stuff is coming up. I want to let all those emotions wash over me, but right now I'm too busy. I want to curl up against you, feel your calm and let it seep through my troubles.
I'm very tired. I sometimes get the feeling that everyone hates me at the office. Or that my friends don't like me anymore. That you are so far away, that you'll never come back. That my heart will be broken all over again. That everyone in my family is sick or dying.
It all comes back to the little things: my daily talk with my sister. The smell of curry sausages in the street. The way women here look so beautiful without any makeup. The color of the sky when it falls asleep, Brahms' quintets. Reading about your lives, your experiences, you.
It's not always hard.
The rain is pelting down tonight and I feel all my layers melding together, strong, weak, tall, so tiny I could fit in a pocket, angry at the unfairness of the world, disgusted by my failings, elated, up down up down.
There is always that moment-I want someone else to do it-I want to be oblivious-I want you to tell me it's all right, I'm here baby.
And here I go. I'm running towards the goal.
LA ROBE EN LIN DANS LES BLÉS
Il y a 1 jour