I always had this thing with Touch, you can say that it goes deeper than Feeling. The touch of paper, and all its different textures, colors, and smells, intrigued me. Having an instrument in hand, between my fingers, like the Pen, with which I could scribble down my thoughts, and see them all lined up, sometimes rough, and other times exquisitely put down, made me curious about what great deeds can one do. To what depths one can go, just by being in reflexive conversation with Paper and Pen…?
To study, I used to summarize books and my own notes, and while writing, I use to try different calligraphies, different ways of holding the pen, and also different positions of the hand. It was something I used to do every time I needed to write something, if it’s at home, during class with the teacher dictating, or in an exam. It was what brought passion into otherwise bleak phases of the day.
I tried many times to start a diary, but I’ve never managed. Too many things, too many visions and dreams, too many feelings all contrasting between themselves, too tough to put it in words.
By nature, I am very complex, and so it is natural for me to understand what others define as complexity. For me, complexity is simple.
Then in 2009, during the heroin days, I got into Nietzsche, which took me to buy a journal, and also a Parker Pen – both were perfectly textured for each other. I like the pen with a fine ball-point which does not spare any ink in its ejaculation, the paper warmly colored with its fibers visible – and these two were perfect together. This was also the year in which I fell hard for a girl, an intense infatuation and cross-addiction to be precise, yet it was the force that drove me to Poetry. Of course, when it ended, writing also turn darker, and I slipped further into heroin, until there was no feeling or thought to write about; just the same re-occurring one.
It (writing), emerged again when I found myself in prison. Again, it started to reflect back to me, as soon as there was something, some Life in me to be reflected. My journal, was my only friend, the one I could talk to from any level of my being I was experiencing myself to be in. It had no judgment. It held nothing back. It bridged the gap that was between the human, and his soul; taking me ever closer to GOD.
Later, I would find myself writing everywhere I was as soon as the voice came with its indelible tongue; at work, in bed, in ceremonies, I would have my journal and pen next to me.
Over Time, it changed, as I changed. It faded and stopped as soon as I was at the usual evolutionary cyclic landmark. I used to be inspired by the exaggerated awe I had for women, that also changed.
There’s something which very few people can understand about writing, and it is the ritual, the sex, the intimacy of it, the immense power of Creation.
Writing stands with the history of mankind; the primordial knowing that this body is fading, and with that, comes the yearning to live forever; if it’s as a letter to a loved one, a book of knowledge, a simple day gone by with the millions before it, just a reminder of existence by Existence itself.