On a cyan background, dried thatched grass, and a sketchpad glued with a woman that cries a red torn paper, and bits of handwritten thoughts handwritten on little torn white papers.

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Crying my thoughts out.

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Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

A river runs deep inside of me, and it takes its source from the mountain of my mind; it slowly flows, streams patiently, and on its course it engulfs some water creatures, some aquatic plants, and loads of pebbles and soil, and this, all the while I sit on its bank, dreamily looking towards the vast sea.

Its patience; my impatience, and yet, the river it tells me that we are one, that its course is my course, and that all of these creatures also swim within me. But I couldn’t wait. I wanted to speed towards the vast ocean and swim freely within its large mouth, keen to meet all of its creatures, when the river in me had not even met the other tributaries.

Thus I’ve taken Darcocyte out of my riverbed, there where it was still learning to swim, and rushed till the ocean… and there I drowned. But the river and I are one — same course, same pace, same path… but I was way too impatient, too impertinent, a foolish head.

There’s no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes

The other day I was brought back to the reality of things, when I realized with sheer horror that Darcocyte is filled with grammatical errors and bad syntaxes.

There’s no unicorn, there’s no magical fairy or lamp, no fairy dust or magical wand, no wishing well, no good fortune, no celestial guides, faith don’t move mountains; the internet is not the vast ocean, it is simply a lagoon — water that drowns us…

There’s no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes; life is real, it is not surreal. There’s only patience, diligence, hard work, logic, perseverance, the reality and knowledge of things, and in-depth analysis… the rest, only fiction, something that I need to keep remembering.

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte.

I’ve been re-reading Darcocyte with fresh new eyes, and this, after one whole year… and my heart couldn’t take it😖, my stress peaked higher than Mount Everest; everything appears so bleak right now, my train has derailed from its track, I am staggering.

From a streaming river I returned back to a stagnant state. Doubts are tearing me, and I don’t know if I should take my shame and go hide in a nowhere to be found cave, or as the good life student that I am, learn from my own errors, and rectify them.

I should have listened to the tips of all these great authors — when they said that the writer should tuck away their manuscript for some months so as to be able to re-read it with fresh new eyes, which is a necessary process and trick that help to self-edit more easily. And now I can confirm that it is the truth; but came to that truth a little bit too late.

I didn’t know what to do… I panicked when I realised that I wrote a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte. I am the only one to be blamed in this heartbreaking proceeding, for all of these months I didn’t change my baby’s diapers😅, I neglected it, and completely abandoned it in the hands of strangers.

Trial and errors, and now I am going through a nightmare, a nightmare on editing street; a bad dream that came true.

I’ve finished my book of poems, and yet, I still don’t have a clue about what to do next. I am filled with so much doubts now, and I have nothing to hang myself to, I’ve lost my way in a maze filled with traps. I don’t even know how to write… see, this is all crap, just like a robot would write — I am unable to write properly because I’m thinking too negatively.

It has never been exotic-English. Some part of it was nonsense, ugly, bad litterature. I have failed right away as an indie-author. Yet I never had bad intentions. I wanted to embrace the DIY (Do It Yourself) culture, the autodactism era that bloomed out from the internet… but silly of me to have thought that it would have been that easy.

I don’t even know why I invested myself so much on that journey, why I attached myself to creative writing, to blogging, why I hold onto the thought that in the end I’ll really be able to make money through selling my own books, and through blogging (note that I need to edit my blogposts too), and afterwards write about my experience, of everything that I went through, of my trials and errors, and then share it with the world.

I wanted to be the light that guides, even if its a dim one, just because I really feel that I can do it, that I have the necessary determination and thickness of skin… I wanted to do it for you, so as for you to know that you have different pallets of choice from where you can begin your creative writing career, to show you all the different ways and pathways you can take to arrive at your destination — and I just can’t help myself from thinking that perhaps I’m crazy and delusional, mad bonkers, that my dream of becoming financially independent through selling ebooks and ad-revs is unachievable, that all of it is too difficult and obscured.

But in spite all of that I still think that even though I don’t make it as a Digipreneur, at least I have a digital portfolio where future employers can scroll through, another skill to add to my CV… got to remain positive😎.

Can a book have a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready

This stubbornness of mine, this stupidity of mine, this impatience of mine… one day these will be the death of me — all signs were pointing to the failing post-sign, and yet I preferred to listen to my ego instead of logic. Thus, is it possible that a book has a will of its own? When it is not ready, well, it is not ready.

As I am writing this blog post I don’t know anymore what to do… this whole situation is stressing me — and I hate stressful situations, I hate it when I’m stuck like that, and I hate that things are not going as well as I wish them to be. I get mad like a child that throws a tantrum when I don’t get what I want😂, especially when I’ve worked hard for that something.

I still don’t know what was going on in my head when I started with the insane thought that I could write a whole book on my own, that blogging would be an easy thing; but I think that I should continue to do what makes me happy, what inspires me.

I want to believe again, to be again, to try again

What is perfection without our own personality attach to it? Without our own magic. I have my own style of writing, not to the taste of everyone, not, for anyone — a little bit decadent, a little bit odd and surreal, perhaps incomprehensible to many readers, but always with parts of myself.

It’s already in the memory of the universe, in the memory of water. Remember, I make one with the river, a river that sees clearly.

I want to believe again, to be again, and to try again. To attest of my online writing experiences. To believe again that there is a bright star that lives in the space of my mind, and that grants me wishes.

Thus talked the river in me — “slowly but surely; with patience and perseverance you’ll stream till the vast sea, and there, you’ll meet the hermits and all the crustaceans; the starfish, the giant squid, the great shark, the enormous beluga, the five hundred thousand years old giant turtle, and all of the water creatures that live in the deep sea. And as for your desperation, I am water, and water cleanse and wipes out everything, from bad memories to what aches. I am water, and you are me.”

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