Love is a pain in the ass
Half past midnight. Fuck. I started worrying again. I can’t admit that I can be the worrying type sometimes. I hate people who worry. They ruin all the spontaneous fun around themselves and then they want too much control in all situations.
When I worry I always start hungering for the road. Being on the go makes things easier in life. No need to settle down and establish deep down relationships where you expose yourself to someone who can hurt your feelings. No need to regret mistakes and feel shame when nobody knows you. More poise for the night, when you know you’ll be gone the next day. You can choose whatever; all decisions are in your hand. I see it as a better form of escaping that rewards you with adventure and new impressions.
I could probably go on forever and rant about my overanalysed life, but it’s most likely I’ve forgotten this by tomorrow. That’s how I work. Shit is emotional and then the next second it’s gone with the wind. Quoting Ferdinand von Schrubentauff (I have no idea who this guy is): I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.
In order to do what you do, you need to walk. Walking is what brings the words to you, what allows you to hear the rhythms of the words as you write them in your head. One foot forward, and then the other foot forward, the double drumbeat of your heart. Two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, two feet. This, and then that. That, and then this. Writing begins in the body, it is the music of the body, and even if the words have meaning, can sometimes have meaning, the music of the words is where the meanings begin. You sit at your desk in order to write down the words, but in your head you are still walking, always walking, and what you hear is the rhythm of your heart, the beating of your heart. Mandelstam: “I wonder how many pairs of sandals Dante wore out while working on the Commedia.” Writing as a lesser form of dance.