My letter from yesterday keeps haunting me. The process and post-writing emotional residue asks my attention, refusing to leave without a reflection. So be it, I give in to the urge, with pleasure. My writing was scattered as well as my thoughts about the topic. I decided to reflect upon death, such a silly and naive idea that I can do it. Just like that, let me tell you how things are. I started writing, jumping from one thought to another, not finishing, shifting, changing. It all begun with a good and honest intention, an ambition to produce a reflection on something I find interesting. But as I progressed my unrealistic ambition to grasp the ungraspable made me anxious. This anxiety, which at the moment of excitement manifested itself through disruption in rational thinking. My attention became so scattered, running like a headless chicken over the hot stones made of words. I didn’t have conscious awareness of what was happening, I just couldn’t see that the ambition I had was completely misaligned with my abilities and knowledge. Not spending enough of time with the topic made it more complicated to find the focus and clarity of why it was interesting for me. There was, and still is, definitely something in death that attracts me, luring into the mystery of the complexity, unclarity and danger. It triggered me to write, my wild appetite was driving me but I was biting more than I could chew. So instead of a juicy meal I got a mouth full of dry words.
Filling the gaps.
Filling the gaps.
Filling the gaps.
My letter from yesterday keeps haunting me. The process and post-writing emotional residue asks my attention, refusing to leave without a reflection. So be it, I give in to the urge, with pleasure. My writing was scattered as well as my thoughts about the topic. I decided to reflect upon death, such a silly and naive idea that I can do it. Just like that, let me tell you how things are. I started writing, jumping from one thought to another, not finishing, shifting, changing. It all begun with a good and honest intention, an ambition to produce a reflection on something I find interesting. But as I progressed my unrealistic ambition to grasp the ungraspable made me anxious. This anxiety, which at the moment of excitement manifested itself through disruption in rational thinking. My attention became so scattered, running like a headless chicken over the hot stones made of words. I didn’t have conscious awareness of what was happening, I just couldn’t see that the ambition I had was completely misaligned with my abilities and knowledge. Not spending enough of time with the topic made it more complicated to find the focus and clarity of why it was interesting for me. There was, and still is, definitely something in death that attracts me, luring into the mystery of the complexity, unclarity and danger. It triggered me to write, my wild appetite was driving me but I was biting more than I could chew. So instead of a juicy meal I got a mouth full of dry words.