The rest of the time I am pretty normal.

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If you’d ever ask me what is a writer’s block (which you’d never would care to) I would describe it as following:

I doubt all the letters that my fingers type, my thoughts seem clogged and it feels that there’s no way back to the previous madness, which I poked every now and then to test a quite filled cup of patience; pouring in a form of letters, words, sentences and very often materialising into nonsenses.

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I believe that now I will be taking out my metaphor card: my thoughts are like a dried polluted river. Not that this ‘river’ of mine was ever clear, but I adored it’s flowing juxtaposition:  alive stream of dirt and all things dead. Perhaps a strong allegory, but on the edge of fighting this craving of madness – I am lost of words. Now all dirt stopped moving. Doesn’t that make my so called river into a puddle? Mud is for pigs. But on the bright side, pigs can be cute. I am cute.

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So I started searching for something to spark the madness and make that water moving already. I began with going through the old stuff that I wrote ‘back in the days’ and for my surprise I stumbled upon scribbled words on my e-diary (I was real gay, but hey wordpress is kind of the same thing, right?… ) that I had when I was 13-15 years old. Now that I remember I think I had quite a few diaries while growing up. Nothing was happening in my life though. I mean times were different for a 10 year old girl born in a small country that just escaped Soviet’s regime. –On this note: Putin, please, just cut the nuclear bomb crap.– I had nothing and therefore none to write about. Also I had yet to develop this thing called critical thinking.

I remember, I would stare out of the window, exploring the scenery (was always a little too dreamy) for a period of 3 hours in a car journey with my dad and I would just write down what I saw. It usually ended up being a horse or empty fields and that’s, if you’d ask me now, is a really sad way of wasting paper.

In the gayiary, I would describe the horse’s colour or end up naming him. This was basically how I got into writing. It was like an innocent crap, but I got hooked. It was my escape from pretty grey days. No food, no money and barely seeing my hard-working parents left me with bare fantasies.

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Boo Hoo. Right? Thankfully all the diaries had been torn apart and thrown away. This way at least I don’t have to go through papers of embarrassment, full of horses’ colours, names or other bullshit. Also, for some reason I was obsessive over particular names and I am pretty sure I had at least 20 of beautiful Holsteiner’s named Emily in that lockable notebook. And why they had to be locked anyways? What secrets does a 10 years old have?

Anyhow I did manage to find what I wrote in my teenage years. I can’t stop giggling… I kind of haven’t grew out of that mentality, I reckon. And maybe that’s why I don’t get my whiskey at the bar sometimes too (either that or my baby face). I was writing about some dark stuff and how I was an empty shell. Not a suicidal or wrist-cutting scenario, more likely I just discovered a state of numbness.

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Writing was my way of self-analysing back then and I guess, is still now. The weird part is that my life was pretty smooth. I had a lot of good things; family, in my teens we were well off too, friends and some sort of love life, yet I was restless. Was that greed or weird self-obsession? I haven’t figured. Perhaps both too. Anyhow from magic-realism stories to more poetic ventures – I was on it. I had so much to say. And as I grew I had more things to add. I think that growing up kind of opens your mind but the key to unlocking that door doesn’t come for free, unfortunately. In fact, it’s quite expensive, obviously in a very abstract way.

It costs you belief, for instance. Belief that If you like something you should pursue it.

Belief that what you do might reach and inspire somebody out there.

You start doubting yourself and your capabilities and end up disguising it as a logical ‘calculation’ or rationality. And if you’d ask me rational thinking is way overrated.

Competition is big out there and there are million reasons why everyone else is better than you. Why even bother then?

Get a 9-5pm job.

Think real.

Earn money.

Get wasted.

And probably see a psychiatrist already.

Stop writing nonsenses about rivers, keys, horses and beliefs. It’s gay.

You’re gay.

I mean, I’m gay.

Am I mad?

And thus, pigs had nowhere to bath anymore.

There was only a pile of trash moving down the stream called the web.

THE END

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