heimthra

"When people are moored shallowly then storms wreck them.

And storms come along."

I should’ve been born a man. They’ve got a healthier mindset, run on a more efficient engine. It’s more natural for them to do instead of endlessly thing about doing. Everything is more instantenious, more in the now. Decisions are easier when you don’t overthink. 

Their biology works to a certain advantage in this sense. They don’t have a biological clock installed within; ticking and counting opportunities away. Their reproductive responsibility is significantly less. They’re the seed, blowing effortlessly in the wind is the natural state.  They aren’t the stem and leaf and root and flower. 

They move more easily - no roots digging away deep into the earth, struggling to reach, struggling to ground itself. I’d rather be a seed shat out by a bird in a mudpile than a flower eternally stuck in a beautiful meadow. 

It goes against a woman’s nature to let herself be blown about rootless, even when it’s a part of her nature to do just that. You’re less of a woman in a way if you’re like that. If you don’t want no seeds of your own and prefer being the seed yourself. 

Your conditioning goes against your nature, it’s a difficult knot to untangle. You’re raised to think you wanna stay in place, spread those roots wide and deep and take care, take responsibility for generations past and future.

It makes a person confused. Some women know from the start that’s not them and they reject it from early on. I wasn’t one of them. It took years for me, it still takes a conscious effort to go against everything to be yourself. Everyone around me spared no time in letting me know there’s something faulty about me, something that just doesn’t add up or needs correcting; at best reassuring me that I’ll sort myself out in time.  At worst, my friends’ parents keeping them away from me and my auntie letting me know she ain’t gonna let her kid be the kind of person I am.

One day spilling into another and then the third, every one of them just a slightly different variation of the previous one. You don’t perceive them changing until you look back into a month ago, or a year ago, or another life past. Like those old cartoons, ones which were still hand drawn, where each drawing is just slightly different that the previous one. You don’t see the difference until you flip through dozens. 

Day after day I struggle to keep my emotions at bay. I have no power over them. I have power over my actions despite those emotions, but I don’t have the power of choosing how (or not to) feel. It’s not good enough, and as long as that power over myself eludes me, I won’t be free.

I am, and will continue to be, a prisoner of my own thought, a prisoner of my past and the people still alive there. To me they are very much alive, and far more substantial than those who live and breathe in my everyday. 

I’m a prisoner of my father, his family and his neglect; a prisoner of D and L and of N and A, and of all the pain I caused myself through them. 

They were only vessels of my thoughts’ black patterns, vessels of my pain. Theirs isn’t the blame. The fault is mine, just as my thoughts now are mine, years and months after they’re all long gone from my life and have had continued on with their own.

I’m a prisoner without cage or bounds. My chain is cortisol dripping into my bloodstream, urged on by a palpitating heart that never ceases to cause me pain. I am running away and into brick walls. I am angry and ashamed. I am a woman who watches her life through a tv playing out memories and sands of time slipping through my palms. 

The hour is late and I haven’t moved an inch. I am a woman standing rooted to a spot and watching a kaleidoscope of time passing her by, unmoving, bound to her grief under that failing trees, until all the world has changed and long years of her life are utterly spent. 

it is not their fault.  It is me holding tightly the blade cutting into my palms. I cannot let go. I don’t know how to let go. I struggle to release and find my fingers gripping tighter. The spiral curves on and I keep hitting the same curve. What is the curve? Those wisest among us say the way is found through release; of all desires and dreams and expectations.

How do you let go? How do you let go within yourself after you’ve already let go on the outside? How do you let go when it’s all you want, all you crave, more than air or food or sleep when you’re so tired your eyes begin to fog? How do you let go. How do you let go and which is the road to forgiveness. If I knew, I’d walk through glass on bloody stumps until I reached my Holy Grail.

“That which you most need will be found where you least want to look” 

I have been looking. I have been searching. I’m a desperate man sprawled on the floor, tapping in the dark for glasses to see.  I’m pointing a flashlight into the void around. I shout out and there’s no echo of my voice shouting back at me. 

Osjećam se strahovito iscrpljeno pri pomisli da razgovaram s nekime. Jako jako iscrpljeno. Osjećam da nemam mira i da nemam predaha, da nemam trenutak onako samo za sebe da odahnem, da popijem kavu sama sa sobom i dođem k sebi. 

Da se podružim sama sa sobom, zbrojim pluseve i minuse i da vidim gdje sam. Na kojoj sam stanici. Malo da pogledam u kartu i vidim koja je cesta za dalje. Na koji vlak, ili možda pješice. Sama ili u društvu. Fali mi moj mir, u svojoj kući i da me gnjavi moja mačka. Da sjednem za svoj stol i popijem kavu iz svoje šalice. 

Da ne vidim nikoga i da nitko ne vidi mene. Da ni za koga ne pravim osmijeh. Da je sa mnom samo moja tišina i zvuk igala za pletenje i mačke koja mi prede u krilu pa mi noga trne jer mi se žao pomaknut. 

Umorna sam od brige za tuđe osjećaje i od prilagođavanja tuđim potrebama. Od toga da se pravdam za svoj novac, da pričam onda kada mi se šuti i da ostajem budna kada mi se spava. 

Fali mi sjest u auto koji ima pribadače na krovu. Fali mi otići na trening dok je još bio u staroj dvorani. Sad je u Dojou, u njemu je oružje i japanski oklop i teretana, ali nisu Basti, Dujo, Nik, Jelena, Andrej, Maja, Miha. 

It can be hard being yourself, but I’ve found it’s the best way.  What does it mean to be yourself? To truly be yourself?  And why does it matter?  How does life change when you choose to be unapologetically yourself?  I’ve come to realise that confidence is a concept you can choose.  I’ve come to realise that authenticity is necessary and it’s powerful.  I’ve tried to spend the time being like other people.  It didn’t work.  I’ts a lot of hard work not being yourself. 

I wish I wasn’t so easily satisfied with material. I wish that I was more More than somebody made happy by a rack full of freshly laundered black clothes. I wish that I was again somebody who would feel awe by being underneath Edinburgh castle. 

I wish that I could’ve felt that moment when I was standing beneath it, in a spot that must’ve been a battlefield at some point. I couldn’t.  I couldn’t feel it, not there where Zara now stands and where “scottish men” look just like men anywhere else. It doesn’t taste different, it doesn’t feel different. I miss a time when visiting a gas station in Germany felt more like an adventure than bathing in Thai sea does now. 

I want to be able to feel things again. To feel the moment I’m in without anxiously anticipating the next one and the promise it brings.  An unfulfilled promise, it seems. 

Roger Zelazny

I can’t stop reading Henry Rollins. There’s never enough of his material for me to read. Everything this man says only makes me work on myself more. Bite down harder. 

I was never one to dream about weddings but if I ever marry a guy I’d want it to be that kind of a man. Part of me wishes I wasn’t attracted to that kind of a man. It’d be easier that way. Easier to find someone, easier to sleep with someone. Ah no, not really, but...

It makes me scared and relentless at the same time. The amount of luck needed to stumble upon that kind of a person scares me. Then I bitchslap myself internally and carry on. 

I was very careful at making myself stop searching, constantly searching. Making myself let it all go. The idea of a happy ending, letting go of the constant lookout. I’ve spent so many lonely years trying to mould myself into what I thought a perfect girlfriend is supposed to be, as if such a thing ever existed, biding my time, only to fail at it completely. And good thing that I did fail. 

Everyone around me changing their partners regularly with me looking on like a beggar, watching into the living room window at a happy family eating Christmas dinner. Feeling starved and jealous and wondering when is it my turn. It’s my greatest weakness. There is still a part of me that wants her happy ending, that dreams of a man that’ll face the world with me. I like to think that I’m stronger than that now. That iron was replaced by steel. I’m planning an adamantium upgrade with time. 

“where shall wisdom be found, and where is the place of understanding? If I knew, I’d walk over and stand there.”

I came here expecting to see something of a mixture between “google image search” shiny skylines and the souq scene from sex and the city 2. Living here means living your life seated down. Any place you want to go to requires a ride - sidewalk will only bring you to the nearest store  if you’re lucky enough to live close to one. 

I’m glad I didn’t grow up in this kind of decadence. The amount of it needed for that kind of urban planning. It’s a desert city, I get it. My arms are already full of beauty marks where the skin was unblemished all but 3 months ago, courtesy of arabic sun. I can understand the laziness that gets embedded into a nation after generations of living inside an oven. I can feel myself slowing down too. You have to. You have to wait until the day is over in order to start it. I hate it. My body craves discipline. 

This is my biggest trial so far. Bring it on, that was the whole point. I’ve never been a sedentary person and I’ve always looked down on people who never did anything with themselves besides watch tv, procrastinate, hang out and let their lives run their course as if they were nothing but a spectator of their own destiny instead of being an active participant. I could never understand it. I always pictured their blood seeping slowly through their veins like one of those sad little creeks with gasoline stains. I needed more, I still need more. I (hope) am more. 

Can you imagine spending your life in a place like that? Never being able to simply get out of your house, put on some headphones and just go. Go lose track of time, of direction, of yourself, just go and let everything but the music and the movement be stripped away. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.