Tuesday, November 22, 2016

sunshine and sorrows

1. I am 20
2. Thus I have lived 240 months
3. I’ve had 3 homes
4. in 2 different countries
5. I have lost 12 important people
6. I’ve had 5 major existential crises (+ thousands of smaller ones)
7. I have 13 books I will never forget  
8. and there are 6 movies that irrevocably shattered my soul
9. I’ve had more than 19 haircuts
10. But I loved only 1 person and fell (deeply) in love with only 1 fictional character

11. I have visited 9 countries
12. and beaten 1 unpredictable & nasty disease
13. I’d started 5 novels and abandoned them all
14. but I’d loved all 20 cats that were mine
15. I went to 6 memorable concerts
16. and visited over 30 museums
17. Shamefully, there are 37 boys I had a crush on
18. I’ve drunk more than 14 000 liters of water
19. I shut down 2 blogs
20. and 3 projects left their footprint on my personality.

     And yes, I have been through too many disappointments, I disappointed too many people, I spent too many hours crying and doubting and shouting in my head and asking myself “is this a world worth-dying in?”. But then.. I’ve met so many wonderful people, read so many amazing books, I’ve fell in love with places and human beings worth-living for, movies and gestures, hugs and dogs and ideals and dreams. And I’ve received love maybe I didn’t deserve but I was grateful for each gram of it. When you look back, you realize you wasted your time on things that now don’t matter anymore, that lost their values, on people that you can’t even remember, on doubts, on being pointlessly angry, and realize.. you could’ve written down way more poems, more quotes, you could’ve taken more risks, could’ve given more appreciation, kisses.. trust.

     Let’s start with this beautiful and terrifying number that 20 is and to make an existence worth-telling your grandsons about and if you won’t have any grandson that’s fine as well, live for writing your life down and make sure you will feel proud reading it.

What if..

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Book review #5

     I will try to write this review so that it will be about the book itself and not about the only fictional character that I have ever fell in love with  (fortunately, up to this point, no fictional character impressed me so much so that I spend countless hours thinking about him!)

     I don’t know what Victor Hugo did, but it is certain that his talent made me irrevocably fall in love not only with the character I was talking about but also with his magnum opus - Les Miserables. At first I thought it would be quite useless to extoll this book since I suppose everyone is already aware of its place in literature, why would I write about it too? I tried to restrain myself, I swear, but I couldn’t help it, especially after I watched the musical from 2012, with its perfect cast and flawless soundtrack which became my favorite movie ever after half an hour..

     Hugo's novel is a fresco of the French society - deplorable in the nineteenth century. Or, partly deplorable since there still were people who worn with pride their virtues. The narrator follows Jean Valjean and describes all the injustices which Providence has condemned him to and which he swallows with an inexplicable inner strength. Hugo makes a very detailed portrait not only of Valjean, but of majority of the characters. Thus all, without exception, come to life and suddenly you are no longer reading a book, but watching a disturbingly poetic movie.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

For all the poetry I cannot write

     I would find you in the darkest corner of my being, in the chaste intimacy, or in the failure to overcome my condition; anyway, I would not dare to search for you any longer. Maybe you are actually in my fear of an intense inner impact that I am not ready to face. Yet..? I tend to this latest version. I would write you down without any rhymes, only harmony rhymes; I would create you with miscellaneous lengths, since the inner flame does not allow me to limit you. Lyrics free from constraints, I would like to crown these white pages with your scent, to make my notebook the kingdom of a poetic delirium.

     How could I destroy the discrepancy between who you are and what you are understood to be? The chasm that could be born between these two edges would become an abyss over which only lightning would bow to. So I shall not write you, why would I, anyway? You place flowers in my hair, pleasures between my fingers and sophistication through the ribs. You enrich me as I, by myself, leafless of you, could not do. Stay mine, allow this selfishness of your keeper.
Maira Gall