When I was about 9 years old I had a crush on a beautiful tinted boy. I thought he was an Indian, and I thought of his bike as an iron horse. We were two children in the snow.
One day he asked me or I could guess who he loved forever and ever, and I answered 'no.'
Then he wrote my name in the snow and biked away.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
A Monstrous Category 4
I was in the living room when my life collapsed around me. No one but me noticed it happening. It started with a whirlwind inside me. Soon the children were playing hide and seek in a merry-go-round that couldn’t stop rotating. My husband walked in circles. He talked about himself and his mouth steamed nothing but clouds. I couldn’t take it any longer. I launched myself into the sky and kept falling until I was the rigid eye of a violent hurricane. The very next moment I increased into a monstrous category 4.
I didn't make my first stop, yet.
I didn't make my first stop, yet.
My Father Was A Man In A Box
My mother had a box made of papier-mâché with love letters written by my father. No one was allowed to read these letters after he had left. I kept asking for it but my mother kept the letters for herself. She opened the box several times a week and next she examined the letters and sobbed. I never knew my father. My father was a man in a box.
A Smoldering Shooting Star
When I looked outside my window a huge blizzard was infuriating the coast of Holland. I had to go outside to feel the misery of my life. When I opened the front door the wind speed choked me. Unexpectedly I fell into the sky through rain and gloomy clouds. I didn’t see a seagull. All birds where hiding under the surface of the North Sea for some reason. I kept falling into heavens. I fell beyond the atmosphere of planet Earth and couldn’t breathe. I fell into the frost of the universe and couldn’t move. I left a bright streak of light behind me when I kept falling, falling, falling... like a smoldering shooting star. I tried so bad to fall out of love…
I let the characters in my stories suffer
People say I write cruel stories and I do agree. I write about the people who say things like this to me. I just write about people in common. People like you. I write frequently on my new novel but someone I know believes writing is a way to run from reality. I have to run from reality. Reality is vicious. But the book I am writing scares the hell out of me because I see who I really am. I am vicious too. I let the characters in my stories suffer. I feel sorry for them sometimes. I cry for them and next I let them suffer even more. Then I stop writing for awhile to find out any story is better than my daily life. My daily life is more vicious than anything else. I really don’t know where I am today. I am a problem to myself lately. I like to hang out at the internet. I have a secret lover in one of my stories. Some time ago I'd found out my whole life is a story because my secret lover said something like it in this story. This bugs me. Therefore I try to live in a virtual world. Everyone is a virtual beings to me and if you invite me to your Blog I am aware of the fact you think you believe you have a Blog but you don’t have a Blog at all. All you have are words and an internet connection. This morning I woke up and I thought ‘I think I don’t exist.’ I hope I think differently tomorrow.
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