Well time for a little personal note...,
Still lost within, somewhere in Jerusalem and trying to forget that there's anything outside this room, that there's anything outside my books, my writing and my poetry. I'm fully aware this blog is not really a diary but sometimes I owe to tell the truth to myself. I don't really have anyone I can talk to, therefore I talk to myself most of the time. The sky here down in Rechavia is very beautiful, I see the trees and the air is so cold... I feel like transported, like living somewhere else. My life up north seems like a distant nightmare I don't want to get hold of, in spite of all those wonderful people that are always around me. But despite all my fluffy talk I never really get to say anything real about myself... hence to avoid the deceiving words and thoughts and pitiful remarks from most of my acquaintances I rather write poetry and think about the beauty that there's in knowledge, the beauty of life itself and I think about how fortunate I am for I've received a brilliant mind, I actually started to like it, my analogies, my inner music, the way I think, my fastening ideas.
Ever since the theft of the computer I feel one of my arms has been cut for I'm unable to write, so I wander in between houses of friends and strangers in order to get hold of some little space in my only window to the world, my window to this precious knowledge of books and ancient civilizations. My books don't seem to do a job anymore, but I'm just being ambitious for I have enough of them and were I disciplined enough I think I could learn far more than the average man knows about anything I would like to; I could for example get for once at all acquainted with mathematics. In the prison that my room is actually so many interesting things are learnt, beautiful music is heard and I see myself in the beauty of the Greek ephebus, transparently clean somehow and with silk-weary skin... I know for sure this all will fade away one day but as for now, I enjoy contemplating it... I touch my arms in the day light and I find how delicate and fragile of a thing I am. And albeit no one can really look through it I'm glad that I have it because it makes me feel I'm not that contemptuous monster I believe myself to be.
I wish I could start some chapters of my life once again and that had my fate been written again, I'd have a more pleasant come and go about through the divagations of life, that hideously enjoys plenty of leisure time on my weightful existence. Here in Jerusalem at a half-stranger's house I just do nothing but spending time in front of the computer, writing, reading, specially reading and enjoying the pleasure of literatures and philosophies; if anyone could understand how much all this is valuable to me. I think I have no other real passion in life than this knowledge, and if I ever had any others they've slowly but certainly taken away from me. Except one though, I'm always believing these hastening and darkening days will pass and that I'll find some comfort in my life; I don't really expect to grow up... neither to live a normal life for I've already accepted it's technically impossible for me... but I want to be a child, I want to play with my science and my poems and to spend the rest of my life doing so, against conventions, even when it means doing it against the conventions that are against conventions.
It's a survivor's tactic probably, you're unable to lose your faith... and even when I procrastinate and talk I always have faith, I believe in myself and that something great will come out of me when it's the right time; I just owe to have some few good beginnings and I think I truely deserve them. These hard days make me think about how beautiful my life has been and how much I've received, maybe not the way I wanted but I have. I've been also loved by people, maybe not by my parents but by other people, I receive lots of love... and I should be grateful for that. I don't think there's anyone who hasn't been loved at all in his life... and in juxtaposition sometimes I've received way more than I deserve. But life knows how she does her things, who am I to live up to it anyway?
I see a darkening future approaching me with a venomous breathe, but I also see some light in the end, I see my mind as the only weapon that will succeed in pulling me through this storm. Two days ago was daddy's birthday, I can't even remember what he's really like, I mean... we talk sometimes just because I make the effort curdling into the hope of some loving words but they never come. He thinks I'm too smart and too cosmopolitan and too well educated to waste time on that shit, and he doesn't waste it either, because he considers himself too low-class for that as well. I really wish I had less of a brain and more of a restful life but you can't get everything in life. Such has been the fate of the greatest masters of all times, not that I'm one of them but probably one day people will hear what I have to say. When will I happen to have the chance to sit in a classroom again? To walk fearlessly and smile to people in the streets? To delight myself in the windows of the stores and dream? My dreams seem to have been in unrest for so long, and they're just longings for all those things I'm lacking of. I live in my own world insice a little cup, inside a little glass house and it's beautiful in there, but I'd like to come out to the world every once in a while, but for now I see it's absolutely not possible. .. when I do anyways I have no one to talk to, or at least not someone who I'd call a friend. There's people who loves me, and some of them I love back, but I don't know if I'd call them friends. This diary, journal, blog, academish site, etc. is probably the only confident I have. The one who understands my metaphors and my hyperbolic sentences and those desperate longings for warmth I write about in my verses.
It's time to have a smoke, the nicotine always produces a poisonous effect on my brain, it's like a drug.. and I don't seem to refuse clinging onto it as much as I can. The last months have given me the impression every minute out there can be my last one.