Sometimes I wish I could record and review my dreams. Even the weird ones, bad ones, terrifying ones or just plain boring. Each one of them is a story that I feel I could write, yet by the time my eyes are only half open, the dream has already slipped away. And the story that could be written, slips away with it.
I miss writing sometimes. And while I know that my writing is mostly for myself and not so interesting for the wider groups, I still like it. As a coping mechanism, as a way of expression, as a safe space to run away and hide. It also serves as a great substitute for closure, when the real one is not available. Not a perfect substitute, but it helps to ease the pain. It also helps to minimize the suffering. I keep reminding myself that pain is inevitable, and suffering is optional, but I haven’t found the best way to eliminate the suffering all together. And so I write, because it helps.
I know I’m way overdue for the Casino at the end of the world paragraph, but truth to be told, I am not in that part of my life where it is visitable. Part of me misses it. No matter how risk averse that game is and how much potential (I say potential, but in truth it’s very much expected and almost guaranteed) pain (and suffering!) it brings, it makes me feel alive, it gives me new way to suffer, and it gives me strength to keep going. Which is abnormal, but it does. I know I’m not the only one like that. I just don’t think I am enough like that to voluntarily drown in it and not consider boring aspects of my life enjoyable too.
From books: No one listens anymore. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.
If there is anything I learned from all that mess is that I am more of a rule than an exception. And I learned to live with it. And it’s fine, honestly. The whole “I’m not like the other girls” is so toxic and it’s been brought on to us by years and years of teaching how you are not good enough.
I can now say that I am not an exception, I am nothing extraordinary special, all I am trying to do is to make myself happy. That’s it. And honestly, it’s so much less pressure. I’ve had moments of being an exception, but so have everyone else. This is why I am completely alright with being a rule most of the time. Because in those rare, special moments, when I got to be an exception, it all smelled oh so much brighter.
From memories: When he told me he will give me a great book he just finished in exchange for Girl with dragon tattoo, I did not know what to think. I have just started taking people’s recommendations for the books, but I was still quite sceptical about it, not trusting most people. On the other hand, before kindle times, I was not in a position to be picky. Besides, if I gave him my book and did not get anything in return, I am out of books I can potentially exchange in the near future. He said it was one of the better books to read while travelling and he was not entirely wrong. I swallowed that book nearly choking on the number of quotes. It was 937 of goodness and not a very well known, at least in my circles. And then it got popular, and then everyone knew about it. And then everyone read it, and everyone felt moved. But I was an exception, who already knew the book, who already read the book and lived the book. I was an exception. It almost made me want to visit India. Emphasis on almost. It’s been 13 years, but I can still quote some of Shantaram.
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