The last day of November

It is the last day of November, and I want to write something before I go to sleep and December comes while I am busy dreaming. I have already reached 6 out of 8 goals I set in my resolution, which might be a success given that I got myself into many other projects during the year.

I sat DELF B2 French language test. I will not know the result before the end of the year.

There are many changes during the year. I have gone through many ups and downs, mostly downs, at work and at home. I write more prolifically than ever and manage to land my poems somewhere. It was really amazing at the time when I was going to give up the belief that I could write.

I started knitting. I read Camus, Yeats, Saki, Mansfield, T. S. Eliot and Winterson.

I started to be interested in Budda’s life and teachings.

I got to know more people. Some are really arrogant, because they earned their degrees in the United States, from unknown universities. I think that no matter what universities you go into, if you refuse to know more than yourself, if you are not open-minded enough to learn something new, then you are lost, you are lost in your stupidity and you are subject to provincialism and extremism. Then you cannot know anything other than your self-importance. Perhaps their years abroad help, at best, to deepen their arrogance.

Some are nice, and some are morbid.

My memory seems to go away gradually, day by day. I cannot even think clearly, I cannot express myself clearly, both in written and spoken forms. It is a catastrophe I think. Sometimes I guess there might be a tumor in my brain. I don’t know.

I come to love the darkness and silence of nights. They are exotically beautiful. And more often than not, I dream myself being in the middle of a desert with no map and no watch. And then I would know nothing about time and space, I could just be a human, in the nature, waiting for the death to come, and nothing more. Sometimes I might be on an unspoiled beach, with the vast sea before my eyes, and sandbar of course, and the wind, and sounds of waves. I might be lying there, and it might be raining. It might be everything.

There were terrorist attacks in Paris and I have been thinking about the World War 3 ever since. And how pointless waging a war is, for benefits of the oligarchies. Does it do anything good in killing a guy who is much like you at home, who could be a writer struggling with his day job, who has a mother waiting for him, and who just likes playing games instead of killing people? Is there a greater cause in a war than power? Those who win have power, power to manipulate, power to decide how others’ lives would be and power to change the history in favour of the winner.

I am tired and I need some sleep before waking up snowed under with work. Why do I have to work? I don’t know.


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