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 way, 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.
It’s 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, to meet all of its creatures, and swim freely within its large mouth — 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 too impatient, too impertinent, a foolish head.
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 is no unicorn. There is 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; there is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes; life is real, it is not surreal. There is only patience, diligence, hard work, logic, perseverance, the reality and knowledge of things, and in-depth analysis. The rest, only fiction, thing, that I need to wrap my mind around more often.
I’ve been reading Darcocyte again with new eyes, and this, after one whole year. And my heart couldn’t take it. I am stressing all over it. I have lost my writing rhythm; I have been thinking too much. My train has derailed from its track; I am staggering. From a streaming river, I returned back to a stagnant state.
Yet, most of the great writers said that the writer should forget their manuscript for some months, as to be able to re-read it with fresh new eyes, and thus be able to discern their mistakes, and 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 I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte. I am to blame for not having changed my baby’s diapers and gave it a bath for all of these months😅…
Trial and errors, and now I am going through a nightmare, a nightmare on editing street; a bad dream that came true.
I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no 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. Me and my mind, we are unable to create properly, I am thinking too negatively.
It has never been exotic English. Some part of it was none-sense, ugly, bad litterature. I have failed right away as an indie-author. Yet I never had bad intentions. I wanted to embrace the e-bohemian culture, the DIY culture. For it was there that we are going, isn’t it? No. It can’t be 2020.
I wanted to do it for the others out there. For those that want to write or blog, to create, but who don’t know how, where, and with what to start. But I wanted it to be the truth of my individual experience. I wanted to be that light, even as tiny as it may seem, in this vast darkness. Just because I can do it. Just because I have the necessary determination and thickness of skin. I wanted to do it for you, for you to know the different ways you can take as to arrive at your destination — though without a dim, though without the necessary talent, and the education needed. It’s not for everyone, but for a handful of bold people, of that I can attest.
I’ve hurt myself against many interesting online services that are not available for most underdeveloped or developing countries. Services where independents and freelancers can dwell and tap into, as to free themselves from this birdcage. And most online articles are about those online services that are not available for us here. That really was my mission, to collect my own writing experience data and archive it on the world wide web database.
Have to say that everything pointed elsewhere. But this stubbornness of mine, this stupidity of mine, this impatience of mine. First of all I hurt myself against a method of payment that was not available for my country (first locked door), then the pricing formulation was too complicate and obscure for me to understand (second locked door), then I was overwhelmed with all of these frustrations. Things were not working smoothly, I was not seeing clearly. Thus, could it be that a book has a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready. Have I not again listened to my intuitions? I guess so, for everything points to the mistakes I’ve made due to my impatience.
As I am writing this blog post, I don’t know anymore what to do. This whole thing is stressing me — and I hate stressful situations. I hate it when I am stuck like that. I hate it that things are not turning out like I wished 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 I had in my head when I started it all out, but surely I always had good intentions.
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. I am not a book thief, everything that I’ve written has been meticulously researched online. Perhaps my texts, even my whole ideas have been mined and sold, but I will always remain the author, it’s already in the memory of the universe, in the memory of water. I am not blind, 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, granting me wishes.
Thus talked the river in me:- slowly but surely; with patience and perseverence, 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 wipe out everything, from bad memories to what aches. I am water, and you are me.