Skip to main content

Vague.

I may look like a guy who does not talk much but my hubristic subconscious mind wants to believe I have answers for everything. A friend once offered me a question; ”what’s your inspiration?“. I mean that’s an easy one. I could have told him that I want to be a physicist like Albert Einstein, an artist like Edvard Munch or leonardo da Vinci, a great sportsman like Muhammad Ali, a writer like J. k. Rowling and the list went on and on before I realised I am already attending at a medical school. I froze for a few moments in silence while my head drowned in the loud noise that lingered around us then I looked him in the eyes and gave him a hollow answer that I knew would satisfy his uncertain curiosity.
I succumbed to the agitating thoughts that flow into my head in every inexplicable way and that question echoed in a voice so deep that makes Morgan freeman’s voice sounds like baby Groot’s. I knew I cannot be any of these. I don’t have the potentials to be an expression of divine. So, what makes me wake up every morning, do things I don’t like, walk among people I hate, swallow my ego for the sake of ideas that devastate my heart?
Maybe I find inspiration in the things I hate. Maybe I wake up with the mere desire of not becoming a failure. Maybe I talk to people that caused me harm because they show me exactly what kind of a monster I do not want to become. Maybe the darkness that harnessed my soul is what makes my life valid. Just maybe.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Covered in lead.

This morning, I hated my mug with the words "Do more of what makes you happy" encrypted on it, I let it slip inbetween my fingers like paper. I didn't brush my teeth first thing or take a shower. Rather, I stayed motionless in bed. My mom made me the breakfast I never laid my hands on. Today, I feel out of character. Really out. I'm having one of those out-of-body experiences, and to be honest, I'm not very fond of the photograph I'm about to see. I don't love the body I was incarcerated in. I'm an object slowly drowning into a thousand disguises I should have worn. I try to swim my way out but I'm anchored by all the books I read, all the movies I loved, all the people I cared for and left. There will always be this layer of lead surrounding me, preventing me from grasping the marvels of the world. If only I could touch it, smash it into a million pieces before it changes into fog. My pain is wearing a bulletproof vest underneath his garment. My p...
Post a Comment
Read more

The pursuit.

You just realise it after spending 21 years chasing a phantom, after hitting nethermost zeros or being at the toppest climaxes and definitely after having a few phases of deep reflection where you start debating everything you have ever experienced. We sketch happiness at the end of each line and we feel entitled to it. We work our asses off and do everything right hoping it would be adequate enough and that things would cosmically align. Little do we know that pain is always part of the process. You can't enjoy every rain drop and every storm along the way without getting soaked. You can't find home without feeling lost at first, you can't feel connected with somebody without the jadedness of waiting, you can't have a best friend without the awkwardness of beginings, you can't negotiate in 'now's without saying goodbye a couple of times, you can't find faith and trust without the sharp pain of disappointment stabbing you in the chest, you can't be s...
Post a Comment
Read more

That's what writing is to me.

I'm starting to think that people usually perceive me as a writer and I remember saying when I first started writing that I don't want to be looked at as such. It's a responsibility I am not willing to take. I only write for my own self-amusement and relief and that doesn't qualify me for anything other than being a friendly neighbourhood thought-giver. Some scripts aren't so personal that I choose to share them with the world. Others are just better kept unsaid.
Post a Comment
Read more