There is nothing I want to say that hasn't been said a hundred times over. No story I can tell that hasn't been told a million times. No character I can invent that hasn't been invented before. No matter how I put the words together, it doesn't matter. It's all been done before.

Why should I bother?

Hello, blank page. I'd say I've missed you, but that'd be a big, blunt lie.

You're just an ass, do you know that? Just an idiot. You're just in the way, you put me off, you scare all my ideas away. I reckon it'd be better if every notebook, or every new document in Word or NeoOffice came with at least some text. Not necessarily Shakespeare or Yates (let's face it, that'd be worse), but just ... something. Anything. Just so the first page wouldn't be blank.

I hate blank pages. I hate them. There isn't a lot in life I use the word 'hate' about, but blank pages are something I definitely hate. ... well, them and Arsenal. Difference is I can ignore Arsenal. You can't ignore a blank page. It's there every time you try to do something useful. Write something worth while. And then you end up just staring at it. Or cursing it. Or doing something else.

Why is it so hard? It's all up here, all of it. The ideas are in my head, like a million movies playing out one clip at a time. But whenever I sit down to write, to put the words on paper, make the images into text, I blank. I mean, occasionally it comes out. But most of the time, it just ... scampers away to some corner of your brain you can't really reach, and hides behind some mundane shit.

And I know I can do it. Because I've done it before. I wrote a book last year. Fair enough, a shit one, but hey; it's a book. Possibly a great book, with some work. So I know I can do it. I just can't force it.

Dear bullies

I wonder if you would still bully if you understood just what you're doing to people. If, somehow, you could be given an insight into our lives ten years later. Not an article, or a story, or a blogpost. But an actual, physical and mental look into how we feel from day to day.

Because we never forget. Because we're never quite rid of it. Because it's always there.

It's not always bad. Not every day, not all the time. You just never know when it's going to strike, or how, or why.

It can be something as tiny, and seemingly insignificant, as slowing down before a zebra-crossing, because you don't want to cause the drivers trouble by having to stop for you.

Or not daring to meet people's eye when you walk down the street, because who would want your attention?

It's dismissing an entire job-listing, because you've already seen how horribly wrong it can go before you've even applied.

It's not sitting next to people you sort of know on the bus, because why would they want anything to do with you?

It's never starting conversations, because why would people want to talk to you?

It's not smiling at people, because what if they don't smile back?

It's not talking to that guy you think is cute, because what if he rejects you?

It's not telling people your true feelings, because your true feelings don't matter.

It's walking through a room, and feeling like everyone in it is judging you.

It's someone walking past you, laughing, and you instantly assuming you're the bud of their joke.

It's not speaking up, because your opinion doesn't matter.

It's not believing a guy when he says he likes you, because why would he?

It's not saying 'hi' to people you haven't seen in a while, because why would they remember you?

It's making every little victory count, because who knows when you're getting the next one?

It's not daring to be yourself, because people won't like you.

It's wanting to stand out, but being afraid of being noticed.

It's not believing you deserve what you want.

It's not trusting new people, because they might hurt you.

It's not really trusting the people you do know, because they might turn on you.

It's instantly being suspicious of everyone, because you never know who will lash out.

It's spending so much time trying to be invisible, that in the end you kind of achieve it.

It's keeping so much bottled up that when you do open your mouth, too much comes out.

It's being insecure for the rest of our lives. And all because we didn't fit your standards.

I'm sorry, but who the hell gives you the right??

[fragment]

It's funny how fast a feeling can come back to you. How you were convinced it had been subdued forever, and then all it takes is one tiny little moment to bring it all back to life. It wasn't gone after all, not dead and buried like you thought (or maybe hoped). It just needed a jolt, a little reminder of how things used to be, and it's right back where it belongs. Even if you don't want it there anymore. Even if you locked it away for a very good, very self-preservatory reason.
Because feelings just don't care. They don't care if they make problems for you.

The one that got away

I try not to think of you much. Not these days, not anymore. I spent so much time teaching myself not to, that it seems a waste of time to undo it all now.

But, of course, I say "I try". I fail, sometimes. I let it all rush back to me. Sometimes, just sometimes, I let it. I know I'm gonna pay for it, I know the tears are going to well up in my eyes and I know I'll be angry with myself in the morning.

But sometimes I just have to.

You're not really 'the one that got away'. Losing something etails having it, and I never really had you, did I? Maybe I could have, maybe I should have. Maybe we were both too busy seeing solutions to realise we were trying to solve the wrong problem.

No, you're more 'the one who went away'. The one who disappeared. They all do, of course. But you're the only one who really mattered. You're the only one who really left an empty space. We forget, we learn to do without. We close the gaps, in the end.

The one you left is still open. I've put something in front of it, a large sheet or a tall drape. Something to hide the memory of what was there, block out the past. Out of sight, out of mind.

But I can't help but pull the drape back, every once in a while. And more often than not, it's not something I do consciously. There'll be a little memory, or an offhand comment that in no way relates to you. But it triggers something, a memory or a word. Or a smile.

And there you are.

I know where you are, of course. The fact that you're gone is just as much my doing as it is yours. I had to forget you, you see. I didn't want to. More than anything I'd have kept you. I do miss you.

But I had to be selfish. I couldn't keep opening that old wound. And I did every time I saw you. So I had to stop looking.

But I never stopped thinking. I never stopped imagening. I never stopped wondering.

I guess I never stopped believing. I guess maybe I never will.

Maybe, sometimes, love is destined to be tragic. True and deep and eternal. But tragic. Maybe sometimes it has to end in tears. Maybe some people are meant only to long for someone, and never actually posess them.

Or maybe I failed, somewhere. Maybe I stopped when I should have ran, drew back when I should have jumped. Maybe this is my own fault, in the end. Maybe 10, 20 more years down the line and I'll still be thinking this.

Maybe ... maybe, sometimes, they're meant to get away ...

[fragment]

"What about those of us who fall in love alone?" (Kate Winslett in The Holiday)

They say good things come to those who wait. She had waited patiently, and she was far beyond tired. Yet the good thing she was waiting for seemed to take its sweet time.

Was it really any wonder that her patience was running low. And that the good things she started hoping for was far and beyond her reach?

Like him. Admittedly, he wasn't physically far and beyond her reach. But from watching him to touching him, that was a pretty long step.

Still, she couldn't help but hope he'd be that good thing she was waiting for.

Lost

I wonder where they go, all the ideas I lose. I wonder if anyone finds them. I wonder if they become stories somewhere else, or if they just disappear alltogether.

Because if they do, that's a terrible loss...