Extracting thoughts of worth …

… as I finally revisit my handwritten musings.

Excerpts from my journal, March – May of 2018.


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. 


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


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 


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.


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


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.


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


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


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


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


I love to think and think of love. 


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.


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


Today, a confession …

… that I dwell more comfortably in sorrow than I do in joy.

Happiness and positivity, those habitual mantras, are void and null without the presence of profound sorrow; it is this exquisite state that constitutes the sole reference against which joy may bounce. The way death defines life and life defines death too is part of this self-validating dance of the binary, with either outcome inextricably linked to the other’s existence.

My conscious life began with suffering. Long before infinity and mortality should have been concepts for a young mind to contemplate, my gentleness was plunged into that vacuum where tears and sleep were all that rendered emotion effectual, or bearable. I embraced the unembraceable and settled in the place where my suffering could equate to love; the place where it could fill the chasm of all the things I would have said and done with a sadness so pure it revealed to me the inherently spiritual genesis of human emotion. And so I stayed there, for a while.

Such sorrow is companion for life (I will die with it by my side), even as the episodes of complete surrender begin to abate. Once less than incessant, spiritual suffering slowly gives way to nothingness; to a flatness where down and hence up and vice versa are no longer upheld. There stands the barren wasteland of no binaries and no existence – a void where mental exertion remains the only thing that makes you human. The terrifying feeling of neither 1 or 0, yes or no and the sense that this may never change. There I stood, trapped where no emotion is present so as to manifest its opposite.

The ones who persevere shall eventually overcome the emptiness and return to those pairs locked in perpetual self-definition. Having made it through the hollow abyss I remain forever conscious that the joy I feel is borne out of my intimate companion, my sorrow; and that whilst I may have mastered the exquisite pain, in happiness I am but a fledgling. All which I feel, which may appear exaggerated or ‘uncool’ (to degrade the language to the exhausted level of millennial expression) springs from the terrifying nothingness I carried for so long. No longer empty, I shall not for a second regret that I spoke passionately of how I care for or admire you, as anything is better than naught; and I shall never shy away from that profound sadness, for joy can spring from nothing else.




Time, oh wicked despot,
How you propagate and yet dilute,
The fickle fancies-cum-obsessions
Of a heart forever yearning.

Inflated is the fantasy
Of a mind thus undermined
By untimely fascination
And a pure, profound intent.

Beware of this affection
That through circumstance goes stale,
For a founded reciprocity,
Too, might not prevail.

Be wise, my loves,
For all does dissipate,
As the keepers of desires past
Ferment to demons in untimeliness.

Untitled, Unfinished and Incomplete 

‘Twas a fascination,
An impotent affair,
Concealed anticipation
And unintended care.

Seldom was she seen,
That tree which yearns to burn,
A love of past lives keen
In this one to return.

In a menacing sweetness
You embraced and kissed me once,
Yet a void that hummed its silence
Brought but agonising doubts.

Reserved to an invention,
A world perceived alone,
I hooked this fanciful intention
To tomorrow not with you, but not alone.

Voicing tenderness implies responsibility and to supply no straightforward answer is cruel.

Do not permit romantic limbo, whether giving or receiving.

Look the human in the eye; be frank.

For no amount of technologically-induced ‘coolness’ can dilute emotion that is pure, nor the pain which springs from the unresponsive unrequited affection glowing on your screen.