September 19, 2014 § Leave a comment

How often it is that we don’t realise what we have in our lives that we need to be grateful for. How very often it is that in the competition to become absolutely like someone else we often forget who we are, only to realize it when it’s too late. Of course I also have some reservations about this phrase “too late” since what is exactly “too late” if anything? Pffft.

I am 35 and I still do not want to think that it is too late… so is it a relative term then? I thought 35 would be too late when I was 25… but now I believe I still have time until I reach 45. Will I still have time at 45? Maybe. Maybe I’ll never know and maybe that is all that keeps me alive. HOPE. The ability to think that there is still something out there that might have the slightest ability to make my life better than what it is now. Something that will miraculously make me realise all of my idle potential, something that will inspire me again, release all my fears and eventually make me a better version of myself.

To many people I know, I write about nothing at all, crap, if you may. My own opinion of my humble attempt at writing is not much different. But then, I write from the heart; whatever stumbles upon my ever-confused mind, somehow takes the shape of the written word. It’s uncensored, raw and rather unpolished. And that is exactly what makes it feel what it is, crap or perhaps nothing…. but decisively mine. Call it whatever you may but I know I excel at it. And there are not many things I excel at.

Even if I feel like imitating someone from time to time, deep down inside I have this irritating awareness of who I really am;
cunningly deceiving what I write every now and then, giving me away.

The absolutely wonderful fact is that I do not write for any specific audience at all. Who am I writing for? I still do not know, but someday someone will just accidently stumble upon this blog of mine and will want to read exactly what I write.

I will keep writing for that one person.

Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot

August 1, 2014 § Leave a comment

“The general considered that the girls’ taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily reached.”

“I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer—and then it struck me that life may be grand enough even in a prison.’”

“Once I am rich, I shall be a genius, an extremely original man. One of the vilest and most hateful things connected with money is that it can buy even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts. You will say that this is childish—or romantic.”

“What is a terrible disgrace to a woman, does not disgrace a man, at least not in the same way. Perhaps public opinion is wrong in condemning one sex, and excusing the other.”

“In such circumstances there can, of course, be no doubt. One’s conscience very soon informs one what is the proper narrative to tell. I admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of my life, the memory of one comes prominently forward and reminds me that it lay long like a stone on my heart.”

The Idiot (1869)
Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Nostalgia is a mistress

July 21, 2014 § 3 Comments

Nostalgia is a mistress one can’t help but fall in love with. And once that happens one is eternally doomed. Falling in love with misery never does anyone any good.
But i’ve found nostalgia to be different. It has that amazing power of lifting me up when i’m down and out, when I need it the most.
It can also bring me down and throw me heartlessly on the ground if I keep staring at it for too long.
But maybe being aware of something is different from actually admitting that thing exists. My past had everything in me that i need now.
And maybe i’m wrong, but i need to find that fire, that hope, that inspiration again.
I owe it to myself and my life that has become a lie.
I owe it to the person i was and the person i will be when i die.

Never let your light shine down…

July 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

Listening to music, the old kind, the kind you listened to when the nights were still young, life still made sense and you still had hope for yourself and for the world. The ability of that music to invoke those long forgotten feelings in you is tremendous, and one that can never be underestimated.
It is almost like you are a different person when you have your headphones on, engulfed in nostalgia. Like anything is still possible, that you can still find hope again. It is a feeling that i possibly cannot describe in words but can only experience.
And what an experience, it is.

My muse has ditched me

July 9, 2014 § 2 Comments

My muse has ditched me. She no longer speaks to me. I no longer talk to her or see her anywhere. It seems that even my desire to touch her somehow has taken a leave. And that is where I must learn to get a little scared.
And perhaps I am getting there as well.
For not so long ago I yearned to stay close to her. My longing to let her stay with me never knew anything but perseverance.
But this complete absence of desire is perturbing— since it indicates a certain acceptance of failure on my part. Maybe I have accepted that I cannot/ will not ever write something that would really matter. Matter in my own eyes, that is. For I think I myself am my own worst critic.
Not very long ago I used to write for myself— for my own pleasure. The muse visited me very often then. But it so seems that this general reluctance to write now has taken her far away from me.
It’s like a vicious cycle, if you know what I mean. I do not feel like writing any longer, hence she does not visit me anymore. That sudden spark, the unavoidable surge of ideas, an almost burning desire to give words to thoughts, or life to those ideas, all of these things seem to have just vanished now.
I write today because I do not want myself to stay lost in the oblivion of uncertainty forever. If I always knew one thing in my life, it was my ability to create sentences. I was never much opinionated, always confused, and always uncertain. If there was anything that was keeping me from reaching the brink of complete insanity, it was that I knew somewhere deep down in my heart, that I wanted to write.
The signs were there, and it was ever so unobservant of me to not see them coming. But they were there. I knew I was getting weaker.
And it hurts me, more than anything else. It hurts me to think that I may not be able to compose two decent lines ever again.
Though it might be a bit arduous to understand for those who do not appreciate the longing to create.

That longing has left me now.
Not much unlike the sudden departure of a loved one,
Unannounced, unwarranted.
My muse has abandoned me.
But then, I wrote this didn’t I?
Perhaps she’s not yet ditched me,
Perhaps she’s just around the corner.
Waiting for me to discover her,

Cody C. Delistraty

writer & modern historian

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