Dare Not Speak For 17 Years

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I decided because I argued so much and I talk so much, you see, that I was going to stop speaking for just one day – one day to give it a rest. And so I did. I got up in the morning, and I didn’t say a word.

John Francis, TED

John Francis did not speak a word for 17 years. Two years ago, when I was busy as a bee, I remember listening to this crazy TED story on the lousy bus going home from school. It was sunny outside, and people in the bus were as frowning as they were every day. I had homework and anxiety. People around me had no care and stone hearts. Then, I was stricken when I heard this guy not talking to anyone for SEVENTEEN YEARS.

First, the first thing came to my mind was “he must be crazy.” I was convinced he was crazy, then John Francis told the broadcaster when he started to actually speak in 17 years. It was in his or someone else’s birthday party, where he had his friends and family celebrating, happy, and secure. Then boom! magic! Later, I was thinking why he did not speak, again. I thought someone or some people must have broken John’s trust to words so much, he never spoke until that trust was repaired in such moment. Maybe it was repaired during 17 years, but in my imagination, the circumstances of the moment he started to speak could not be coincidental. Or it was just because he wanted to avoid arguments, as he said in the interview. Well, hmmm…

Quiet Or Silence Royalty Free Cliparts, Vectors, And Stock Illustration.  Image 115276612.

Then, I began thinking about my words, and my trust to words, and my trust to people with my words. At that time when I heard this broadcast, I did not enjoy conversation (still I don’t) and the only person I trusted with my words was my best friend who lived 8.000 miles away from me. Now I realize I did not even tell her how I felt, but listened what she felt about things. Our lives were similar in a way, so when she told me about how she felt about her parents, boys, or school I felt a little bit relief. Sometimes she listened my outbursts. We were a good team of anger bunnies. However, this year I realized she did not care about me as much, and I stopped talking to her. That instance, she dropped our friendship, did not even try to save it. Our friendship must have been a sank ship, I was just the one who looked at it underwater.

It wasn’t her fault though, I say to myself. For years, I rejected telling people about the things that frustrated me. You know why? Because people do not care about you, me, or they. People care about their I‘s. Because I believe in this, and had two of the people whom I trusted treated me like a transparent water bottle, in which it did not matter if there was water inside, you could always see through, if you wanted. You always wanted to see through.

Well, I was thinking about John just now, who did not speak for 17 years. I was thinking about my experience with words. Later, I was thinking why I don’t enjoy people. John said in the interview, he saw no point in talking. I think we are alike with John, but John is more honest and brave about this. Maybe he was hurt more than I was, or maybe he had other reasons not to speak. As I said, it is all in my head.

An Oblomovian Existence

Oblomov: Goncharov, Ivan Aleksandrovich: 9781479129935: Books - Amazon.ca

“When you don’t know what you’re living for, you don’t care how you live from one day to the next. You’re happy the day has passed and the night has come, and in your sleep you bury the tedious question of what you lived for that day and what you’re going to live for tomorrow.”

― Ivan Goncharov, Oblomov

Oblomov can be the most boring novel you read, or it can be the book that lights an escaped ray to a forgotten window of your life. While I was reading this masterpiece seven years ago, I hated Oblomov. During my readings, I often dropped the book in my hand by falling asleep. However, later Oblomov was a half ghost I thought about before going to sleep at nights. Why did he choose that life? Wasn’t he right about many matters? What if I was caught by the Oblomovian syndrome?

The character Oblomov is a man who lives his life without passion, intention, and destination. His means are provided by the farm he had inherited, his house is taken care of by his servant, and his time disappears as he lies in his bed, for what? nothing. Until, there is always an until except in Oblomov’s case, he falls in love with Olga, who he author as someone different, someone who has control in her life. And yet, our Oblomov is Oblomov. Even though he tries to follow this spark of passion, his love soon catches stillness like a butterfly put in space. Rather than love, Oblomov chooses to marry someone who cooks, cleans, and spends more than half of his income. I can’t forget how author had described this woman’s arms, the quickly moving plumb, white arms as the attraction while Oblomov was stricken with Olga’s manners and mind. Our Oblomov dies in the house of this convenient woman.

To Oblomov, life is something to endure, even if it is a happy life. Things are only illusions, and they don’t have meanings. To Oblomov, everything is empty.

What made me think of Oblomov today was my late behavior in life. When I am stuck in myself, thinking I am worthless, or life is worthless, I try to imagine myself as a book or movie character. For now, I am a Oblomov with a Oblomovian syndrome.

I think many of us are Oblomovs in some matters, though. When you don’t follow your passion because you are lazy, and you think, “does it worth it?” Does it worth it to feel the ultimate pain of rejection, the exhausting drive of passion, the embarrassment of wanting it more than others? Do I have the strength even? To get up and watch the sun raising for a new day?

“But what was he to do? Stay where he was or move on? This Oblomovian question was for him of even deeper significance than Hamlet’s ‘to be or not to be’.”

Oblomov

The Moment Kills All

The moment was all; the moment was enough" - Virginia Woolf | The words,  Worte zitate, Literarische zitate

The moment suffocates me. The moment makes me feel guilty of other past and future moments that are ruined. It chases me. What is all that is about the moment that crushes me? Is that the burden of “choice?” What can I do to feel everything is alright about moment?

“Enjoy life. There’s plenty of time to be dead.”

Hans Christian Anderson

The thing about people telling us to enjoy life in a cool way is that I don’t think it works. Oh! I should enjoy life when my past traumas bother me every moment? Should I enjoy life seeing that injustice and stupidity had found a way to conquer the world. Or is that the people who will hunt me because of their ego’s? Who never listen? Really, if you find a solution to enjoy life, not live a life of endurance, please let us know. I am stuck.

I don’t want to do anything with it because I feel like I can’t take the frustration anymore. I want to trust something. I used to had the will to live the moment and enjoy my time but now I am terrified of losing. Or is that not it?

The other thing about moment is it is set to absorb itself. We have a limitation of happiness and sadness. When you feel too sad, at one point, you will start to feel happy. It is a cycle. The moment, too, is a cycle. You might think the moment worth great of a deal, sometimes it does, but sometimes it does not. In the end, it is nothing. I mean, really, how much the collections of moments, life, worth?

I know I am talking nonsense. But what else I can do?

dreamsfears. sleep.

Sleep Cycle | Sleep Tracker, Monitor & Alarm Clock

In the midst of starting a new life for myself, I am abruptly lost in my confusing sleep cycle. I wake up at night, I force myself to wake because for some reason I am in a constant guilt of sleep, in which I dream of the worst nightmares. Today, in one of my dreams I was a man, and some kind of organization, or the whole world(?) was after me. I was running away and hiding with knowing that in whatever cost I pay to rid myself from this mysterious chase, I was to be caught. The knowledge was constant. There were no safe place for me in my mind’s foggy clouds.

My hair is a mess. I am a mess. I have everything I wanted now. More than I dreamed of is in my service. I can learn French, first of all. It was a goal of mine for many years, and there is a good class I am taking with a good teacher and understanding classmates. I know I can learn as much as I try and challenge myself to learn. But, why? Why do i keep failing myself in this? I should be excited. I should be studying sleepless. If I were the real me, that was what I would do. And yet, I need a reason, a motive to do so. I need a driving force.

I keep wanting to sleep.

I Accept a Promise of a New Life

Charlie Cunningham - Bite Lyrics | LyricsFa.com

“Stone cold faces let you keep you poisoning your blood
Cut you open then you’ll see poison in your blood”

I like this song. More than that, I was this song. But there is always healing. Right now, I think I began healing.

Oh, isn’t this wonderful! I have achieved my dream of having an apartment to myself. To listen something in a loud microphone, to make mistakes while cooking, to dance while cooking, to not hate some other person’s existence, which was my fault sometimes to be too strict in house rules, but what could I do? It is me writing in a dorm apartment, for which, I worked my ass of to achieve. It feels great. Sometimes I wake from my dreams, and thank God for what I am given.

I even met someone. Today I met a girl who spoke my language, but because I refuse to speak my native language, we spoke in English. She was very understanding of my decision. She even told me about a group I can get in. I feel like we are so alike with her, but I don’t know if I should want a friend right now. I don’t know if my depression will allow me to love someone with their (natural) mistakes. Maybe I should wait first, and listen myself in solitude.

I used to want things from life, well I still do, but I am not so lured any longer. I feel like there are two choices in life: either you have a life you want by working hard or you act for a script that was written by old aged bitch called circumstances. Then, I ask, what is all that for? I want to change circumstances, but sometimes, somehow, I find my will disappear.

I thank God very much for everything right now. I have shelter, food, and the means. If I try, I know I can make things go well. About what? Hmm…

I will wait for healing. I need this healing.

I am learning French. The class is very nice. People are very nice too. How come we see nice people around. Where were they before?

Anyhow, I am letting myself discover, and even make mistakes.

I am an Island

I have been in this city for three years. And now that I look back, I haven’t made any friends.

What was the problem? Maybe people were too loud, too phony, too stupid… Was I a determined introvert? No, it wasn’t that. I did not want them around myself. Even when they wanted me around them.

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I stayed in my little rooms, where I was always uncomfortable with the noise my roommates made in the kitchen. When I say I have made no friends, and that was my choice, I mean that. The problem is sometimes I get scared when I am alone.

I am scared of myself.

This week my twin sister visited me. She is more depressed than me in some matters, different kind of depressed though, so I try to console her and listen to her. She had this school rejections in her college applications, I got into one, luckily, but you know, she is a better person than me. What makes her better? She loves people, listens to them, helps them, and is productive no matter what. But me? I have been lying in my bed since corona-virus started. First, social distancing was my excuse to be in the house, and my roommates started feeling repugnant about me being in the house all the time, later, I began going out little by little, but then it was too exhausting.

I read books, not as much as I wanted to read them, but some. I wanted to write a story, sometimes too badly, I can cry watching a life story of an author, not out of empathy but jealousy. Why don’t you? You may ask. I don’t know. Okay, that was a lie. I am afraid. so much. I fear that the only thing I care about in this world, writing, will fail me. How to be a writer, anyways? To write a novel, I have ideas, so many ideas, but I don’t have the words. There is also this backlash of being a second language.

I am a coward. I know. I am so much of a coward, I can’t even get out of my bed. Lately, I have been thinking, maybe I am in depression. I don’t know. Today I searched for depressed movies and watched one about a woman who lost her husband and daughter to a car accident; she never cried in public, but in a swimming pool wept she, convincing herself it was the water weeping.

Depression feels like a modern escape for failure to live the life properly. However, I just can’t. I should be happy. I should go out. I should stop this crap.

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Something should be able to change this. Make me laugh sincerely. What is that? Will I be like this all the time? I want to tell about it to people, but people hate sad stories. They hate a sad person. They don’t want to hear about it. They are always bored at the end. I am bored too. Yet, I also don’t want to have fun.

What is to being

I have a ukulele that I can’t learn, a painting that gives me nightmares, dying flowers, some mistakes have no soul, should I pet a fish? I think they know more than we do, or they are like us, most of them, the ones we can see and touch, the ones that are convenient because delicious and healthy, the others can be used for beauty, of course, but don’t they wander in the skimly lighted sea, and follow the moment for another day to not be eaten, not be catched, or not to become clowns in a rich oxygened tank, a girl was I stared at them, but they never stared at me, not so good at consciousness, are they? what about the deep sea? it is the unknown, we don’t know it, no one, fishes? how funny people send space ships above the sky to learn if there is life but no one sends a deep-sea ship below. what is so great about the sky it excites much more than the ocean. or do we not mind what is ours, but i know everyone would go crazy in an alien invasion, to re- own, from sky, to care about above than ourselves, always. even the unreachable, wander, curiosity, they say. we resemble the fishes in that way, they never try to swim down, always above, we are the same, they didn’t see me when i was a girl looking at them depressed in a tank, not good at consciousness, funny, i see them with ached smile. and i am them, how funny, how sad…

Happy Birthday Poem

Today is my 21st birthday. I want to leave here a poem by Lord Byron. The main idea of it is “you are getting old, and you will die, here a poem about my dead lover, and that is sad, but gotta accept it you loser.” (no it is not like that. I love this poem.)

REALLY?

And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return’d to Earth!
Though Earth receiv’d them in her bed,
And o’er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov’d, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
‘T is Nothing that I lov’d so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass’d away,
I might have watch’d through long decay.

The flower in ripen’d bloom unmatch’d
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch’d,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck’d to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow’d such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish’d, not decay’d;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o’er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43822/and-thou-art-dead-as-young-and-fair

Paranoia: The Madness Under Your Skin

Caligula, the third Emperor of Roman Empire. “The great crazy.” Have he ever thought in A.D. 38 that I would be watching his life story in my living room in 2020?

As much as I am so sure, somehow more than enough, he is not as attractive as the actor who is playing him. This Brazilian soap opera tasting documentary is about how one gets in the power, rules in paranoia, kills everyone he cares about, claims enemies, can not swallow a drink for some reason, and gets assassinated by someone who is taking a revenge. Well, isn’t life beautiful in times of Rome?

What is strange about Caligula is that he is known with his madness. Well, that’s not that strange, a lot of rulers are crazy, you may say. Yes, I feel you. But yet, this guy was a popular, so much loved by public, and indeed a pleasure catcher emperor, until he was caught by an illness named “Brain Fire.” I was thinking about this illness’s real name in medical life, but I think it might be psychological (like the one Prince Zuko got in Avatar. Okay I’ll cut the anime crap).

This guy has feelings too, okay?

Later with this fire burnt in his brains, this Caligula guy kills his chosen heir (which means son in Roman law), then kills some significant amount of other people who he thinks might be his enemy, such a warrior he was he actually tried to make his horse a beautiful adviser, indeed there are some incest involved, then of course to add something exaggerated by the historians, he talks to the moon (who doesn’t really?).

I am not a historian. But watching this soap opera documentary, I really felt how Caligula was crazy. From the moment paranoia began ruling the blood in his veins, he lost control over his “good side,” and it was not him who made those decisions, it was it, the madness, the paranoia.

Do I have paranoia? I asked to myself. Then for some reason, I wanted to put a crazy laugh there.

Well, I have fear. I am afraid of so many things. First of all, I am scared of insects, so sometimes, I feel like I just saw an insect. But actually there is nothing there. Though this is a small game my fear plays to my brain, it is not pleasant.

This will be an embarrassing story. Once upon a time, when I was staying in boarding school, I made myself believe that I had a huge worm in my stomach. It started when my roommates told me about worms that crawl in human body (before we went to sleep!). Well, because I did not have any acclaimed resource to soothe myself that stomach worms do not appear in the body in the moment you know about them, I started thinking about it. First, I was like “wouldn’t that be interesting?” Later, I was feeling like puking, and started walking around, trying to make it go back to my stomach. The night ended when I scared the hell out of a girl who woke up to my voice and saw me in the dark, standing. OMG. It sounds crazier than talking to the moon now. (I hoped Caligula would overshadow me.)

I know nothing about paranoia. I know so much as science knows. And my friends I tell you, it is nothing. Because no one can cure it. Only the person maybe can learn how to trust, to the world, to the people who loves them, to the fate, and maybe not to the moon that much.

The Strange Uncharted Being

“The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it. The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?”

-Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room

Noted Virginia Woolf, to me an author who can speak to souls of people in her slow, descriptive, poetic, so difficult to understand language.

Every one of us has a perspective of what living is, waking up, seeing the most traditional dance of the sun and the moon, wondering for the next move, who is going to take care of what today? what should we eat for the dinner, will I pass the exam? Will I become who I desire to become? Why am I so sad, all the time, alone, but so wanting, absorbing, ending, the day will be over. What have I done? What am I doing?

I tried to make a map of myself though. When I was a kid, I remember thinking about myself as someone who should be perfected. I did not want to have decayed teeth, fat belly, an empty mind, a loose understanding… Later, for a while I thought I was the only one who knew the secrets of life, you know, I would read psychology blogs about how would a person would touch their necks when lying, how an insincere laugh could be detected, and how narcissists could use you like puppets.

Then the moment came, I realized with my child mind that these are not the secrets of the universe, indeed, my knowledge on people was universal, and anyone could get hold of them. So I was concerned, anxious, with the idea that people knew much more about me than I do, and everything I had about myself was insufficient. That moment my map was broken like a glass, one piece there the other piece somewhere else. Every time I tried to pick one up to connect the pieces, I was hurt by the realization that having everything in one piece in life was impossible. The pieces had their own minds, they changed, disoriented, and sometimes were lost against time.

It wasn’t insufficient knowledge that happened to me, but life happened. I lost control. I thought I could build my passions up like Frankenstein, but that was a whole evil process, and destroyed everything I knew about self. One day I would wake up as myself, the other day, I would feel like a man I read in a novel, who would look from a balcony and guess, what people did have in their chests.

We are strange uncharted beings. Everything feels like everything will destroy itself this century, but some centuries ago, a woman sat near a lake, and thought, “why am i here, in this life, will the lake tell me about it, or will I be as buried as others?”

It is always the same question.

The question must have an answer. (must it?)

There is no map of our strange beings.

There is a whole life when we turn the corner.

There is a whole nothing

At the corner

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