On past

It was nice writing (and reading) these stories. They mark another chapter of my life. Perhaps right now you would think: what, something so small and insignificant? I would say yeah. Something so small and insignificant, like a bookmark, is to be considered a chapter of my life because it is this time when these words I have written will become embedded perhaps into memory through something I have left behind.

They might get lost, hard chance they wouldn’t actually. But that’s not what matters. They have created a bookmark through time I can look back to and perhaps say “damn stupid man I was back then…”, or maybe just think silently that this was the first step on the stairway to heaven. I don’t believe in heaven nor hell, nor in the Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Not fairytales, too complicated and intertwined for that. Ideas. Notions. Fact and fiction bound into what has been seen as truth.

‘Tis what I try to produce. Feeling through words, racing heart through text, massage the brain through the sheer power of the eyes. Create beauty out of energy and symbols. It’s what artists are known for – poetry, epic novels and poems, stories with nigh no end. I look towards them and I am cast the shadow of their greatness. Who are they to give me shade? Wouldn’t I be able to shield those beneath as well?

“Nobody there, I’m 19” I would think.

I don’t care, mind you.


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