Entry #3

 I have moved to this new home fairly recently. The walls are not as empty as they were in the first month and slowly the space is becoming more and more easy to use for my own needs but whenever I am outside of it I find myself dreaming of the moment I will leave it. The thought surprises me; I know I did not move in the best of psychological states and that I felt - and still do - forced to do so by the circumstances. But I am not blind. I can see that when within these walls I can breathe more freely than I have done in a while, I have seen some healing effects already. The willingness to create is slowly finding its way to the tips of my fingers enough, even on days when work has crushed me, even when sleep has repeatedly evaded me. I feel perplexed towards the eagerness to go and finally I have reached the conclusion that perhaps it's not the house - for the house feels like a haven, welcoming amidst all the noise and the chaos. A part of this emotion is the resistance to heal, for one can grow tired of healing, sometimes the tiredness is so familiar that it's easier to manage, and perhaps it's just that this city is finally kicking me out. I wonder sometimes whether it's the city life in general. 

  I often get into arguments with people over my headphones - I never buy expensive ones for I know that they moment they break I will immediately buy new ones for I can hardly step out of my home without them. The city has become too difficult over the year to tread around without the aid of music. The constant optical and hearing assault has proved to overwhelming and the headphones have been the only thing that has helped. They say, don't walk around listening to music for you hear no thing but the truth is that without the beat, ringing in my ears, bringing me back from sleep, I can hardly keep track of what is going around.Outside of the city border it is not so. The sounds there are more discreet and I am glad for them, relieved in their harmony. 

  I will get out of the city for a couple of days, back in the nature, I have an opened bag on the floor, trying to figure out what to place in. Except for a few changes I mostly want to bring notebooks and books, different pens, maybe another camera. I wonder if there's much of a point in bringing a camera, often the mere sight of it makes me feels guilty. This used to make me feel good I think. 

  Now photographs make me sad, like they enhance the outline of every piece that has been cut off from my life.

  The pictures of others serve as evidence, but evidence of what I know not. Their happiness, or perhaps the fact that there is not place cut out for the person I am presently in those pictures. I don't much care about the past me. But I do care about these photographs, more than I care about. I care about the fact that I am not in them and that I have become so superstitious against them.

  So I am battling against this superstition the only way I know how to: by running right at it. Slamming my body against its body until one or both of us break. I feel a near desperation at the thought of touching all the things that made me feel alive in the past and the camera is one of them. I need it in ways I never figured out in the past and that I don't care to explain in the future. Sometimes realizing that something turns you into a better version of yourself is enough justification.

  I will take then, at least for these few days, the different parts of me that used to make me feel better and carry them out of the city, among the pine-trees, sitting down and letting their scent envelop me any chance I get without the disturbance of people. I will try to concentrate this feeling, extract it into something precious, something to keep me going in the coming days, for I know many of them will be hard, cruel like the month of April in spring, bitter while pretending to be sweet and then stopping even pretending.