Extracting thoughts of worth …

… as I finally revisit my handwritten musings.

Excerpts from my journal, March – May of 2018.

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Be it bitter or unexpected, sweet or anticipated, we must learn to laugh with, or at, the twists and turns and instantaneous alternations that are so often the work of others. 

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In what things do I (you) find purpose, and what things find purpose in me (you)? 

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Those are the rivulets of thought that slowly (at geological pace, perhaps) creep into the surfaces of the internal vacuum, popping out like veins in harsh exertion. Canyons of unexpected thought, of the realisation that life is so much more than a tried and tested progression. From the monolithic riverbed I see the intricate network illuminate in each direction with its countless feeble paths, those ideas and aspirations conceived but unattempted.

‘I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me … I am rooted but I flow.’
Virginia Woolf, The Waves 

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I must permit the words that flow out to relieve the pulsating substance within me that floats and grows and folds within itself and out.

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The woes of a generation manifest themselves in the microcosm of my own inadequacies. 

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The worst thing about hope is that it soothes the unwieldy centre of emotion with the balm of expectation, a balm which turns to poison should life get in the way.

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I have no story to tell but my own and I shall do so truthfully. 

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Though the goal is to remain uncomplicated, the future swarms round restful states like the unforgiving wasps of Berlin’s late summer. 

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Generation emoji lays prisoner and victim to an anxiety bread by the incessant quantification of closeness. 

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Each silence, each unanswered whisper breaks the brittle beating core of my benign existence.

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I love to think and think of love. 

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Дали колебанието някога спира?

Сигурно в някой отдалечен момент, когато животът е изживян и всички постижения и стремежи принадлежат на миналото.

Дали само тогава човек е сигурен в това, което прави, или това е просто моментът, в който всичко губи значение?

Дали някога тези накъсани мисли ще се слеят в нещо по-единно, едно истинско произведение във формат неконкретен?

Или завинаги ще останат тук, плод и заложник на съмнението и несигурността?

Поне едно е ясно – мислите, тефтера и написаното на ръка са дезориентираното начало на това, което може би никога няма да бъде.

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Ако листата на плачещата върба са сълзите ѝ, то тогава тъгата би следвало да окапва през зимата. А пък се случва точно обратното.

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