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ulian questions writing
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if i write one more word, how sure can i be that it will sound as truthful as i intend it to be? if i tell one more story, how sure can i be that someone will still find it amusing?
the more i write, the more i lose my way. and instead of creating a time capsule as evidence for my existence here in the mortal world, i find myself repeatedly reliving my worst experiences and writing about the pain tenfold more than it initially was. sometimes, the words on the screen resonate with my soul just fine. but in other cases, it feels like i just highlighted the things i never wanted to remember ever again.
why does it feel like i am only continuously torturing myself in the light of self-reflection? i dare to discover more parts of myself, only to yet again get lost in an eternal abyss of misconceptions. one moment, everything is clear. then i turn to one side. suddenly the clouds are turning dark and the dark is closing in. i am a child, crying about the ice cream fell of the top of my cone.
maybe i'm meant to lose myself over and over again. maybe writing isn't my true salvation. but maybe it is and i'm only feeling lost at a time like this. i have no sure answer. i have yet to reach the end of my chapter. frankly, i don't even know if we've already began.
this was ulian abyssenia at
forty-one minutes past the
fifteenth hour in the eighth
of april, year two thousand
twenty-three
YOU ARE READING
the diaries of ulian aleksandrovich
Poetrya young lad's attempt at making it as a writer lost in the streets of london. unfortunately, he has returned home with blisters on his toes. but soon, he will be on that train again. and soon, he will make it there. here lies the diaries of ulian al...
