I remember reading Alberto Moravia’s novel “Boredom” in my 8th grade when my friend lent me her copy, telling me that in this book I will find consolation for my loss of interest in life I complained to her about. I was so fascinated by the fact that even boredom can be an inspiring experience to a writer, and how the main character of the novel was simply a bored artist. Later in my teenage years, I grew fond of Sylvia Plath’s poetry, expressing her depression beautifully without having to sugarcoat it.
I believe that I have always had tendency for sad contemplations -though not for sadness-, but I do not know how or when I started to reflect only when I feel melancholic. Melancholy is a beautiful condition and it’s a call for aesthetic considerations , an encounter with one’s own self.
But to face yourself can be a quite tedious task, for that I never read my old diaries. In fact, I only use them to hide things I never want to read or see again. And now I keep buying myself notebooks that I abandon without using. Poor unread words and poor empty pages.
I have been thinking that I’m having a writer’s block which explains my very few recent posts here fairly -even my reason for writing this was to get myself writing-. But now I realize it’s only because whenever I write I expect better thoughts and verses. Expecting too much from yourself as a poet/writer can be destructive to your skills as you start to lose your appreciation for the words you utter and thoughts you write down. But well, Charles Bukowski wouldn’t have become a poet if he expected much from his so-called talent, would he? That was a joke – I mean, I do believe that poetry is a platform for all debatable matters, including both depression and beautiful women’s asses, haha.