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 even using them. 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. 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 appreciation for the words you utter and thoughts you write down.
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.