On writing
The thing I wish I could do.
I talk a lot. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I hate it. A lot of the time it’s painful. It’s painful because it forces me to think somewhat straightforward for a while. It’s painful because I have to reveal my thoughts. It’s painful because no matter what I do I can never get the words to be an accurate representation of what I want to express.
Still, talking is nowhere near as painful as writing. When I talk, there is the occasional moment where I feel smart. Where I feel like, now I got it figured out. “Finally, I got through to the poodle's core.” And I do believe talking things through does help my thinking. Just as walking does.
Ask me about that epiphany tomorrow. I won’t be able to recall.
The thing is, the words disappear as soon as they have been uttered. There is no permanence – except for any lingering effects. The spoken words are as fleeting as my thoughts.
Talk is cheap. Paper is patient. Writing is hard.
I know why it is hard for me.
Writing is so very permanent. Set in stone. Black on white. Written down. The ink is dry on that one. Do not worry I am taking notes!
Geschrieben steht: „Im Anfang war das Wort!”
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Geschrieben steht: „Im Anfang war das Wort!” –
Hier stock ich schon! Wer hilft mir weiter fort?
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Hier stock ich schon! Wer hilft mir weiter fort? –
Ich kann das Wort so hoch unmöglich schätzen,
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Ich kann das Wort so hoch unmöglich schätzen, –
Ich muß es anders übersetzen,
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Ich muß es anders übersetzen, –
Wenn ich vom Geiste recht erleuchtet bin.
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Wenn ich vom Geiste recht erleuchtet bin. –
Every single written word has such a weight to it – how am I supposed to write with ease?
Yet, I have always dreamed of writing. And I have always dabbled. Taking notes in every situation. Carrying notebooks and pens with me wherever I go. Always in secret. Always a dream. Always a thing I wish I could do. A thing I never properly did.
And I know why I want to write. To me writing is the purest form of thought. I know this statement does not hold true unconditionally – it doesn’t need to.
The commitment to the written word – a thought frozen in time – is beautiful. Scary, yet beautiful.
Towards the end of 2022 that dream awoke again. It presented itself not in a forceful manner – but rather carefully. Between the years I spent some time writing but the flame died quickly after just a couple of pages.
Instead – after too much abstinence – I picked up reading again. I love reading. Of course I do. I admire those who write. I want to be one of them.
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On 26.04.2023 I attended a poetry slam – as part of the audience. I hadn’t been in over a decade. Witnessing these people manipulate language in beautiful ways moved me. And I realised – maybe it doesn’t matter that I don’t have anything to say.
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On 02.05.2023 – after roughly 3 months of continuous January in Berlin – I wasn’t in the best mood. Spring hadn’t quite shown itself. And those who live in Berlin know – winter is dreadful over here. Thanks to my newly found reading habit I turned to my bookshelf for comfort. I picked up Faust. The rhythm of the first three scenes is incredibly soothing.
But it didn’t quite work for me that day.
Looking for something more raw I picked up Nietzsche's diaries – which I had never read before.
I was greeted by the entry pictured to the right (or above on mobile) written on 26.12.1856.
For those who don’t read german these are the opening lines:
Naumburg, the 26. 12. 1856
Finally, I have decided to write a diary in which everything that moves the heart, whether joyfully or sadly, is committed to memory, so that years later I can still remember the life and activities of this time and especially mine. May this resolution not be shaken, although significant obstacles stand in the way. But now I want to begin:
What follows is a rather detailed account of his life leading up to that day. It is really interesting and brings an additional perspective to his later work that I was not aware of – I’d recommend reading it for anyone interested in Nietzsche's work.
I was also generally very impressed by that level of reflection.
And then I realised: At the time of writing the guy was f*cking 12.
12 years old.
That’s just ridiculous.
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One week later – on 09.05.2023 – I created a document with the wonderful title “Who Am I?”. I wanted that level of reflection for myself. I typed away for roughly an hour. Then I stopped. I haven’t opened that document since. I’d encourage anyone to try it though. Memories are funny. And actively remembering brings about things long forgotten.
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Some time later – I did not note the exact date for this one – I discovered a text by Bukowski titled “so you want to be a writer?”.
When I say “discovered” I mean it was brought to me by Lex Fridman who introduced his reading of the poem with the words: “Bukowski of course, I find myself disagreeing with him a lot lately.”
For all of us – trying to be writers – Bukowski has a clear cut answer: Don’t do it.
Throughout the poem he reiterates that statement a total of 13 times. Every single time in connection to a reason not to write. And every single one of those reasons is good. It is infuriating.
And after all of that he leaves us with this:
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.there is no other way.
and there never was.
Fuck you Bukowski, I won′t do what you tell me.
Shortly after on 13.06.2023 – out of spite - I bought the domain floris.wtf and created a little home for my writing. This blog.
I want to write about my thoughts on things. Because writing is the purest form of thinking. And I like to think.
May this resolution not be shaken, although significant obstacles stand in the way. But now I want to begin: