today i have heavy boots like Oskar Schell and carry all the loneliness in the world like Leo Gursky. i would like to talk about myself very much but i think i am slowly losing the ability to talk, like that man who carries around a notebook to write down the short phrases that still stay with him. i miss literature. i miss art. i miss singing. i miss telling people that i love them very much.
i also miss my memories. memories don’t stay. they escape. they die. they force people to let them go because accepting that you are living in the past is painful.
i don’t know what i am writing about. it is weird because if i stop to think about what i am writing, i won’t be able to write and that upsets me so i keep writing. that makes me start to wonder: what if the first draft is always the best draft?
tonight i am in desperate need of beautiful writing and raw emotions. i want something tender, sweet, unpretentious and humane. i want a writer to tell me what means to be a human and how to live because living, how do you do that? it is so difficult to live well that people don’t live anymore. and that upsets me.
someone wrote about stars in the sky this time last year and i want to read that piece again. it is beautiful and makes me dream and wonder. it makes me want to live.
artists, where are you? i need you tonight.