Hello. It’s me. Been a while. This feels awkward. You know, same as seeing an ex at a party or a social gathering and you never knew they gonna be there now you are in a situation to talk after few months? Yea… How you’ve been? All jokes aside it is good once again to write a few lines, even though as I do, I am struggling to find my way around words that need to be said and want to be written. I always had my patches of absence, so to speak, but now I stand in front of you, with my head bowed down in shame, as I have been away for some time. What was it this time? What excuse could I possibly possess that would make my actions of absence valid you might ask? Was it depression again? In part yes, even if I feel sick of using it again and again as my crutch whenever I go away. Was I busy? Most definitely, as my day job took me away more then it has in the past few years, working all day every day even after summer which never happened. But truth be told, as I am standing now in front of you, the few that reads these lines, I have no excuse. I fell in a hole, a familiar place of darkness that felt oh so comfortable, so well known, as it embraced me in its arms, I felt my dark thoughts weeping with me. A familiar friend, from a familiar life I never could escape. But it’s not all that grim. These past few months came with moments of joy, moments of happiness that I was not accustomed to. It is still a strange sensation, to feel good things happening to me. You can not shake that corrosive emotion that with every good deed, every benevolent moment you experience, that you are owing it to someone, as a debt of a loan shark, your mind never stops trembling in fear that someone will come to collect what it’s due. But disregard the ill feeling of dread, ignore the depression that always hangs with me in the corner of my mind, you would have to admit that at the end of the day I left. No matter how valid an excuse, the fact is I need one, means I failed, mostly myself.
So many paths, so many roads to take
That’s how I felt. Like I see roads and paths that stretch as far as the eye can see, me with my confused and dazed expression not knowing which one to take, as the night, heavy as iron, was slowly but surely coming down, warning my soul and lost heart to make up my mind, as I could not stand there forever pondering on the choice that needed to be made. I always felt in some sort of way in that situation, but now it was different. The stakes, the risks, even life itself, started to feel real. Each choice that could brush life, that could strike the heart, be it with joy or terror, lost its allure of romantic slumber that a dream carried and now I found myself in reality of life. That reality slowly chipped my heart away…
I tried a lot of things in life. As a piece of puzzle, I looked for my place to fit in. Years of rejection and trying passed by, until I remembered a passion of a childhood, until my mind became heavy with dark thoughts that seeped through and cracked my brain, leaving permanent scars. It’s been now maybe 4 or 5 years give or take when I attempted to write, a journey in which perhaps I do not have much to show for, but looking back now I, for the first time in my life with certainty and calm heart can say, found my place, my purpose, my fate. In 4 years I written 3 books, hundreds of poems and shit ton of post, mostly talking about my experience with mental health and life that reached hundreds and found themselves in my words and experience. Should I be proud on the progress I made? Surely, and I am, I’ve proven countless of times that I am more then capable of doing this. But generally? I doubt. And how could I not? I worked for almost 10 years jobs that drained my soul, broke my back and mind thinking I was worthless and with the life I lived I tried to live it convincing myself it was true, that that’s the best life can get and that I do not deserve anything better. It took years and lot of talk to convince myself that I can and should do better. In life, as a person. The struggle was real and it’s still ongoing. But now, perhaps more then ever, it’s reaching a pinnacle. Even though I made enough, as I would like to put it, in my 4 years as a writer, still it is not enough for me to keep doing only what I love. I am at a crossroads. Switching countries means I need to find a steady source of income, even if it is putting myself in that position I was for almost 10 years. For the majority of my life I lacked ambition, be it from a mind that prevented and prohibited me to feel joy and satisfaction as I thought I was not worthy of it, be it from a surrounding that I grew up in that made me feel like I had it good where I was and should not strive for more as I might be disappointed, I’ve always struggled to find a path in life and convincing myself I was worthy of it. But writing, ignited a passion that was lost, that I never thought I possessed. It was so much more then just a career path I wished to actually fight for. It was an escape from depression, a ladder that made me climb out of that dark pit I dug out myself, it was belief and hope that I could actually be something and someone more then I was, a way to offer something to the world that would make me worthy of living. And with that new found hope, came fear. After finding something I never thought to gain, came the realisation of what if I am not good enough, what if I was fooling myself into thinking I could actually do this, as perhaps this was just one of my many foolish and failed attempts that would end up in only one way.
Now I stand before you, the few of my many, with a small comeback to these lands of the written word, perhaps no stronger then ever, but more eager to prove my worth. After 8 long years, I will be quitting my job, moving away and will try my best to grab that piece of happiness everyone is mumbling about how good it is. I am curious myself to see if there is some left for me. It has been so long since I dared. Since I made myself live life. I mustered the strength to find out, am I really worth living. As I know, better then most, staying in one place, satisfying yourself with the bare minimum, is not living. As your soul slowly grows dark and the hope and ambitions become a distant wish and memory, you find staying, is just a slow death.
Stagnation is the great life killer.
Worthy of the word
What really defines our own worth? That’s the question I keep asking myself. Is it the deeds we do? Or perhaps how good of a life we live? For most of my life, looking at the mirror I do not recognise the reflection gazing back at me. I do not know the name of that man who’s eyes look like mine, as he feels familiar, yet unknown. I know who I want to be, what I want to do, yet the path of how to do it is unclear. After every major project I make, the first thing that sets in are not the high five’s of well done, neither are the words of encouragement, but thoughts of doubt as why did I make it in the first place, or did I just create a thing no one would even see. To most of you, who dare to create, the natural thought occurs if it will be liked or hated perhaps, while in my mind a single fear exists – to be forgotten. Even now, while the sun is about to rise, writing these words to you, I ask myself, to what end? Do these words matter, do they reach any lone hearts such as mine? Sure, you would say as long as it matters to you, and I understand that premise all so well. But my dear reader, I’ve spent my life talking, masking common words with pretentious lies, cloaked into cheep clothes of intelligence. I, which is weird for a writer, am done with words. Not in a sense of writing, creating, no. But out of fear that whatever I say may be born as an excuse. So what is left? I ask myself the very question, fighting each and every thought that dares to rise, making my mind well awake for days, as sleep is not yet deserved. To take that leap of faith? To jump and trust my instincts, not the rationality of fear? How good it sounds, simple yet complex, as I stand on the crossroads of time, not knowing is my fate right or left.
I admit, I wanted to come here, write something, anything. But with fear that my mind carries too heavy of a burden right now, I stayed back, looking from a distance, wishing for an opportunity. It is this, the lack of dream, that brings me towards you. Broken? As always. Dismayed? Oh please, that’s my natural state, if nothing is wrong I worry why it isn’t. Defeated? Well, no. No. I have been defeated before. Broken time and time again, by my foolish choices, by the depression that held me and the anxiety that shouted I can not do more or better. As a man who lost not all, put plenty, before, now I stand in front of you and ask how can I be defeated? For I wished death before, cursed life to end, now wanting to live, I find it hard living. I have my vision. What to do, what I want to achieve. Perhaps it is not in my destiny, to become more then I was, perhaps I too shall fade, with this new found dawn that I now wait, maybe obscurity is what waits down there in the end. But what can I do? I poured my life, my soul and beating heart to the pieces that were created, few have seen and I still do not know what to think of what am I capable to do. Maybe it is doubt, the all living shadow, that brings me down, or perhaps I think too much, one thing is certain. Defeat, until the heart beats, is an illusion. As long there is breath in my lungs, there will be the will to fight.
For now I retreat, for now I rest, as the dawn rises, I shall greet her properly. And then once again, lay my head down, hoping, that somehow I still am invited to the land of dreams.
For you, the few, yet the many, thank you. For the support here and in general, I hope I muster enough strength to continue to come back quickly, hoping this hiatus was just an anomaly. Till then, keep your head up high, your heart beating true. And never give up on what was dreamt.
Your forever dreamer,
Harry.
The Word Den 