I wanted to try and get away.
Everything has been hard.
If I wrote about the things my mother says to me... well I can’t.
I can't leave. I have to write. If I don’t write... if I don’t write, it’s because I’m cured and my mind is empty and emotionless.
I watched a fictional TV programme this evening where the characters travelled back in time to meet Vincent Van Gogh. The exploration of Van Gogh wasn’t deep by any means, but it touched the nerve of his genius quite simply:
His madness was so beautiful. What a mind, what an exceptional mind.
It’s something I say to Alex all the time. You don’t see the world like I do.
“He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray, but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world – no one had ever done it before – perhaps no one ever will again.”
Something you may not know about me – I have always wanted to follow in their footsteps, I aspire, one day, to be a great author.
I wrote this when I was 19; after I read Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar for the first time:
How is it that old books can harbour such a smell of dust? Dead air, trapped deep between the yellow pages, like a memory of all the years it’s laid keeping the secrets of their illustrious words. But the smell is sweet to me, as if I’m inhaling the breath of my ancestors, giving me cause, reason, inspiration, to revive the heritage they’ve left me.
But the deeper I read, the stronger and harder they seem to warn me. Their works were born of struggles; a medicine for loneliness, a cry against silent suffocation, or simply the result of having bordered on the edge of something that no-one else could understand. A reader can almost feel their minds burning, so brilliantly creative, and yet so emotionally destructive at the same time. The abandoned words were warning me. But too late? I first read Sylvia Plath’s poetry when I was seventeen years old.
Why I write:
Aesthetic enthusiasm, George Orwell called it. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement.
I didn't try. Or maybe I did. Or maybe you can't escape the head you've been given.
Hillary Clinton meme
8 months ago