Rate your inspiration from zero to ten: Zero inspiration. Two language capacity. Time management, hour-based planning. Asking people to act in some specific way. What the hell am I writing about? Some people write like depressed people, even though they are not depressed. I got used to it at some point of my life or I'm doing whatever I like. Hunger and fatigue. Hunger and energy. All concepts can be collaged, but one gets tired of being a collagist after 30. All of a sudden, I remembered some unnecessary person from my past, whom I met in an Istanbul street. The most generic street, the most generic night. She and her friend talked to our group, or we talked to them. Then, adding each other on social media, and deleting process. What a waste. I really do not need visages of people from my past. Being a human is like being a pretender, no matter in which culture you are brought in. Social connections are like pretending to be a coherent being, like having a skin without any internal parts. Is life really as insidious as I write? Dreams are savers. They are time savers, they never return as regrets. Writing might be a disease, just like over-thinking. I just want to be. Unconditional acceptance. Writing is the fear of letting things be. It is better to be more loving and forgiving than being the smart-ass genius who puts terrifying wrinkles between his eyes. However, it would be nice to not complicate things and get a feeling of what real life is. I would prefer to be... what? More normal? Is there a comparative amount of normality or normality is the constant, original norm? What am I writing about?
...I am looking the lights of the street on my right side. Two, little, saturated blonde street lights. They give a sense of reality, which is helpful for the experience of existence. Will I ever be able to simplify this cosmology? I hope so.