a conclusion, of sort
I don’t know how to describe what this is, that’s why i gave it this title
I decide to write because I am bored.
that’s the truth of it, no embellishments or lies. im not writing because the stars have inspired me, much less because life is so beautiful right now.
I write simply for utter boredom.
now what to write about?
I started writing this on august 25th, which is absolutely bizarre to think about, because today is September 22nd, making it almost a month since I wrote the first words.
And the bizarre thing is that it seems yesterday. Giving such fact, I must conclude with the most absolute certainty that time is relative. I’ll accept no excuses, no discussion. I’ll even present marvellous and almost unbelievable proofs of my conclusion:
Time and space are so utterly connected in this absurd thing we call universe that if I look into a telescope (one of those amazingly huge ones that allow you to see planets and stars fantastically far away) and see a planet, I am not going to be seeing it as it is now, but as it was x amount of time ago, because that’s how long it takes for the image of such planet to reach us. Therefore, if a star, per example, explodes somewhere in the universe, it is possible for us, here on earth, to still see it whole, and come to see it explode years after it actually did, for that’s how look it took for light, for that image, to reach here.
So if after that being laid down, I can only hope time started to look to you, as uncertain, as unbelievable and as relative as it is.
Anyway, the old matter returns… what to write about? That seems like an eternal question, I swear. My desire to write doesn’t seem to always be enough for words to magically appear in my mind, much less for them to give me at least a light of how to begin.
Even though, some way or another, I suppose I have begun.
And perhaps because its been a month since I begun writing this thing, or I suppose not really a month for we have already established that time is no such thing, I should try and finish this in some way.
I guess I am going to finish it by telling you some pretty important, and in some way essential things about myself.
I am a reader, but a writer from soul. Both reading and writing came into my life when I was very little, and since a very young age I knew, or better then, I felt, that words were necessary for me. Not in a well-of-course-you-are-a-human-being-talking-and-using-words-is-expected-and-obviously-necessary way but in a I-have-words-in-my-soul-that-need-to-be-put-out-and-i-have-the-deepest-desire-to-be-understood way. Which basically means, I always had the inexplicable desire to write. Talking has never been enough, and at this point of my life I know it will never be. Reading is where I find my understanding. That’s actually an interesting and curious fact, for the name of this blog came from this feeling of mine, that I was better understood by the words of dead writers than I was understood by all the living. So you see, I cannot live without any of those. Of course there has been many moments of my life where I did not write or read, but there was no single second both of these things weren’t on my mind. They are, as I said, an inexplicable desire of the most profound places of my soul and being.
I created this blog inspired, initially, by other blogs I deeply admired, but I think I mostly created it as some some kind of excuse of mine to write more (especially because, of course, I had to pay in order for this to be here, so I better do something about it, right?) to post my thoughts, my photos (that also show a great part of who I am) and most importantly, my deepest and weirdest emotions. I know I have way more inside of me, just waiting to come out. I am going to write a book one day, and that is the most important thing in my life. The art, this specific form of art, which is literature, without which I cannot hope to live. And the dream, the idea, of one day creating such form, creating feelings through words move me so deeply, I could sincerely cry. I have cried about it, to be honest. I adore art, and most of all, as I said, I adore literature, I adore language, with all I am. After all, isn’t it insane that we, human beings, have found a way to describe what we feel, to describe indescribable things, and (the insanest of all) to be able to, through this form of communication, cause and create feelings in others? We all know words have the power, more power at times than action, to move and to hurt. People have done beautiful things because of them, and also awful things. How powerful and absurd is such thing? I wish I could learn all languages in the world, so as to know how to describe each precise feeling, each precise emotion with the deepest currency (even though I do not believe it possible for even all languages to describe all that is to be human, or all that fits in us).
Now I’ve reached a point where I cannot write anymore about this or I will go mad. But I hope that in this post someone could find a bit of understanding. At least of some kind.
I hope it wasn't too confusing.
I know I had a great and very interesting time writing this.
And for now, sitting in my writing table, that’s enough.
by Antônia D. G. Lau