the burden which the start of any story bears: instant unfamiliarity and strangeness and numbness; like the outer part of emotional shallot that requires some gradual peeling to get into the core
doesn't it always feel strangely different to hear the beginning of any story? some begin confidently, aiming at one clear direction, taking us on his/her train of thoughts and we part involuntarily part willingly give in to ride along with the wind. some others, their benign beginnings are just a personal translation of 'i don't know. maybe we can try to get through this.' and we can say: maybe we don't want to. maybe we stop reading after the very first line. maybe s/he writes only for him or herself. maybe it doesn't have any meaning at all. maybe it will start to lose its already scanty enthusiasm and die along the way. maybe we shouldn't bother.
maybe every story should be just like any dream: has no beginning and has a very blunt or abrupt ending.
i feel like the only reason why beginning exists is because we need to get used to their constructions of reality. adjusting our perspectives with the author's (which is why book is a wealth of knowledge because it's not merely a collection of data or naturally beautiful phrases but also perspectives and points of view). my teacher told me to always use 'hook' to begin any essay and it had always been easy; but it's usually when we talked about small things. things that honestly don't really matter to us: death penalty, social networks, homosexuality, etc. i mean, they are important, have always been an issue to a lot of people but only a fraction of them matter personally more often than not only when they happen to us or someone close to us. when we want to say about the big things they just lurk inside and refuse to go out, we run out of hooks even before they bubble in the surface. have you ever wondered?
there is another dialectic tension inside of me when i see those words floating freely in the virtual realm, eg: 'my life consists of the world is so beautiful and i hate people and i must kill myself' and i found comfort in them and said to myself that i am not alone. whatever you think about there will be someone else who has already thought about the same thing before. it's the big things, the big things that lurk inside. but that means that we are not different from one another and i am not going any further than any of you in this world
the big things that lurk inside of me say to me:
you feel stuck
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
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