Type, Text, Tell. Stop.
Work, Write, Wield. Drop.
Everything is a labor, a chore
And I’m already much too sore.
I have so many questions, unsolved questions for that matter. Questions on the origins of mankind, questions of mankind’s purpose and niche in the world. Philosophy, religion, science and history. These are some of the subjects my questions arise from, hence the reason I’m interested in them. I wish I had more than just a lifetime to learn these things. I wish I could answer my questions, I want more knowledge.
Quote: “It’s the possibility of having a dream come true, that makes life interesting”- Paulo Coelho. Whenever I feel depressed, it is usually due to the fact that I have this idea that my life is somewhat mundane, and uninteresting. I hold my dreams of an interesting and better life so close to me, but sometimes they feel so far away. Sometimes it feels as if they might not even become true. When these thoughts come to me, I have to remind myself it really is the possibility, that what if. Coelho is a brilliant man, and an amazing writer, who is probably one of the reasons I have aspirations and goals.
I learn Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian and Russian, then I become a transfer student in Sweden. There, I will meet a bunch of interesting people in which I actually can be myself around, and I don’t have to constantly pretend to be someone I’m not. After I graduate, I decide to stay with my family in Finland, and because I will know Finnish, I can speak to my grandma who lives in a little village west of Kuopio. I will then stay there for a while and continue writing, although I always saw writing as just a hobby. I might even publish something.
I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, at least that is my understanding. But what if we are not strangers? What if we knew each other long ago in a past life? You could be my sister, brother, friend, enemy or lover. Maybe we will meet one day and not even realize it… or perhaps we see one another every day and never realize it. For now, you are just a stranger to me. For now, you are just another blade of grass in the field of strangers.
He’s the little boy who walks before cars,
The one who wakes up to a sunny day.
He’s the child who gazes at stars.
The unfortunate one who never gets his way.
But he’s the dreamer of dreams,
The sailor of streams.
Things I’ve been posting are not my finest, and I’m feeling uninspired. Perhaps a trip to the Getty will spark something… As cliche as it sounds, I’m coming down with some writer’s block.
Here’s to the lonely girls and boys,
The ones who seem to make no noise.
But shy from the danger of a night out,
They choose a completely different route.
Astray from the alcohol, tobacco and drugs,
Never turning up like lowlife thugs.
So here’s to ones that make this decision,
The ones who claim to have perfect vision.