“First Snow in Dolomites" by Thomas Rampertshammer
Are you a constant observer, consciously looking for things you can use as a writer?
I think I’m a very unobservant person, one who goes straight to concepts about people and ignores evidence to the contrary and the bric-a-brac surrounding that person. Stephen Spender said an amusing thing about Yeats—that he went for days on end without noticing anything, but then, about once a month, he would look out of a window and suddenly be aware of a swan or something, and it gave him such a stunning shock that he’d write a marvelous poem about it. That’s more the kind of way I operate: suddenly something pierces the reverie and self-absorption that fill my days, and I see with a tremendous flash the extraordinariness of that person or object or situation.
Deactivated my Facebook account because I’m laden with teen angst; I’m a late bloomer.
I’ve been watching a lot of films and telly lately to cope with a tedious life. This has been an update.
(I can’t write anything without sounding awfully
I’ve planned to do NaNoWriMo this year, although I don’t see the point now, not when I’ve started writing le bane of my existence since last August.
Writing makes me forget. The sweet, fleeting relief from my own heavy thoughts, god, it’s like putting your head in the water and never coming up for breath again. And you’re not afraid of anything, not even death. A reprieve that is both lonely and lovely. No one is on that journey with you, no one but you. Many possibilities have been spun into realities I could work with, making me forget, delirious. Many a time I left home to strange places that gave me a deeper meaning of that word more than my own home could give me. Faceless, nameless, nothing but words, words, words. Here is the place where I love the things I’ve always hated, and here is the place where I hate the things I’ve loved so well. Here is the place where I forget myself.