Origin of Thoughts

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   bla...

Because I can't feel my legs anymore. They're dangling on the floor of a room miles away, where they wish to be. Not here. They were not meant to be here this long. Fingers try to make castles out of the humid dry air. Nothing. The dark is blinding. And I see everything. That's why it all mixes up into one single colour. The colour of the world. And you think I can't see a thing. And my mind? You ask if my mind was in the right place? Could you point me out where it is actually supposed to be? Is it supposed to be dangling on the butcher's where all of you have laid yours? Have you thrown it to the sea because you wanted to start clear? You know where my mind is? It's in the middle of a bridge. One side of it leads to your reality. Another leads to my home. Tell me where I should go.

The undecided being Our tracks were never made. We will never make them either. Paths aren't  created for others to walk on. And no one, I swear no one will ever walk the same path that you have. Our lives are as vast as this land. Our paths will be just the same way. Do you make your path to walk on? You don't. You don't have a path. You don't build one. You don't follow a trail. Life was never about having a path. Life was always, always about getting lost. But life was never about losing your purpose. It was never about looking at your past or future. Life is, and will always be, about finding peace. The true meaning of existence, of becoming a human. Why do we spend hours trying to figure out what is wrong with us? Why don't we stop in the middle and realize that life is just a part of the existence? That mistakes are not worth sobbing over if we don't have much time? Do you know how close you are to death? Do you realize how morta...