Leaving everything for the last minute…

Dear readers,

today I’m trying to write learning diary that I should have started a long time ago and continue doing during the last two months. I haven’t written even one sentence before realizing today that I have only two more days before the deadline. Does this ever happen to you? Or am I the only one who struggles with doing everything last minute?

It’s impossible to recall what we did during the weekend my creative writing course’s last weekend took place. “Creative processes” that’s the subject but I can’t come up even one thing I learned. Not even one idea to add to my learning diary. Neither have I any idea have I even been writing in April or May.

This has to be some kind of punishment for never doing anything on time!

Usually, faking is my specialty. I survived high school with above average scores doing only the minimal amount of homework and never studying to tests if I wasn’t interested (and I was only interested in psychology and writing…) My life has been full of events not requiring me to give my everything for them. After high school, I ended up studying business: I was one of the best but literally skipped half of the classes. Now I’m working on my own but even that doesn’t challenge me enough.

And then I started studying creative writing in open university. Still seems like a dream. For the first time, I really wanted to do everything I could to be the best I can. But getting the full scores doing nothing just didn’t encourage me enough. Maybe this should be the happiest moment of my life? The best of best Finnish creative writing teachers liked my writing enough to give me great feedback and best possible scores! Why can’t I enjoy this moment?

Easy has never been for me. Normal has never been for me. I get bored and that will end killing me. I’m not even kidding…

So, now after not trying and never doing anything I’m getting punished. And even then I know that I will survive with good enough results. It’s sad to live life always trying just enough to keep going but never enough to really get invested in anything.

But I’m not giving up. I never give up. 

Sorry for this odd diary entry. But expect more of them in the future! I’m trying to be real so it means getting my messy thought on the blog…

With love,
Lost Viivi

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And she was lost…

I don’t know who I’m. I don’t know where I’m going. Lost. So lost in my own body, between being happy and not having the right road to walk.

People keep giving me advice but never anything concrete.
Find your passion.
Do what you love.
Get a proper job.
Remember to study.
Don’t give up.
Just keep going.
Find yourself.

How can one find herself? How can you keep going when you know what you want and still you feel stuck? The things I want and need keep changing every second of the day. Right now, writing is my passion. Tomorrow I would love to play games all day long just to want to study psychology the day after that. How can you decide? There’s no way one thing can satisfy me.

I’m writing hundred and one blogs even if it’s too much for me. My drawer is full of half-finished stories waiting for the writer. In my mind everything is good but small things like brushing my teeth can turn my way in the opposite direction. Standing 2 minutes in my dark bathroom only my thoughts keeping me company feels like a death sentence.

What if I’m going towards a wrong lifestyle for me?
What if I end up hating writing after doing it as my job?
Wouldn’t it just be easier to give up?
Why? Why I have to be like this? Why can’t I shut down my brain?

And then everything changes. I never get anywhere because I never give my all to one thing. It’s not because I don’t want, it’s because I don’t know how.

With love,
Lost Viivi

She was bird without wings

Sixteenth of December
She was bird, she was cat, she was endless sky with million bats. She lived bravely but scared of everything. Her days were full of sun and moon, sleepy days and sleepless nights. Negatives and positives circled around the body of her. A lifetime of opposites being all she got. Flying like a bird and laying down like a cat. She became everything a small girl could be and still she wasn’t quite like people believed.

She wanted to fly and fly and fly. But there was always that one risk: falling down, breaking wings. Nothing could stop her from dreaming of it. Those beautiful skies full of birds. Huge wings shaking in the wind taking them around the world again and again. She wanted to be like them, a bird with wings so strong she could keep flying and never land. But it wasn’t possible. Not every bird know how to fly. Not every bird can be on the sky. Her wings were cut off, disappeared, taken from her. She was a bird without wings doomed to live forever in the world of those going to die.

She missed the sky but she loved the ground. Sleeping through the day like cat was dream achieved. Doing nothing. Living without purpose. It was perfect until it was not. One day, two days, three days she was okay. Sleep, relax and see dreams. But days four and five and six she lost her will of being silly. Day after day it became harder and harder to stand back up and be like a bird. Sleeping like a cat not knowing about the world felt just fine. But not anyone can live that forever. You start to wonder. What if? What has she missed? Is this all I truly have? Could I have flown if I wings still had?

 

(This text was written in ten minutes without thinking anything. I did almost no editing and decided to publish it just like this. Nowadays, I call myself a writer. I even study creative writing in uni. But my problem: I write in Finnish. This blog is in English. In my opinion, it’s sometimes good to publish texts that aren’t so great or ready. Maybe in a few years, I can return to this one and see how long way I have gone with my English skills? Or so I hope…) 

With love,

Viivi Scared of Writing

 

Poem Rant

Third of December
Last weekend was my second time on the creative writing university course I am currently attending to. The theme of this second weekend was poems. My relationship with poems could be described as awkward and almost hostile:

I hate poems. I always end up writing poems. For some odd reason, other people love the poems I write. They love the poems I don’t want to write.

Reading poems isn’t for me. I know there is a lot of people in this world who share my opinion. They think that poetry is boring, too hard to understand and not for them. Only the last claim describes me.

Poems aren’t boring. You just have to find the right ones. Even music and especially rap songs would be poems if we wrote them down and forgot the sound. And who doesn’t listen to music?

Anyone can understand poems. If you say that I am wrong, then you have never even tried. Find a poem and read it ten times. That’s it. Now you understand it. There is no one way to read poems. Everyone understand them differently depending on their own mind and life experiences. Sometimes the poets can’t even understand their own poems so you shouldn’t stress too much. Just read a poem and let your own thoughts fly.

Even if you think that the poem is deathly boring. Last weekend taught me that it is okay to hate poems. As long as you are feeling something the poems are doing their job right.

tomatoes, you know, are real
that is, if they remain tomatoes
if they try to be melons, however,
they then become fakes
though everything and everyone is real
in their own way,
it seems we always try so hard to become fakes
-Mitsuo Aida

I know I started this text by saying that I hate poems. Maybe it is a lie? My lacking English is on the way. The better way to say this may be “I hate poetry”. I am not sure. I hate poems but then again there are poems I love more than anything else. Like that Mitsuo Aida’s tomato poem above.

I first saw this poem at Mitsuo Aida museum in Tokyo, Japan. It was written in Japanese and this is just the translation. I have no idea if it is as good in Japanese but like this, it described my feeling at that time. Before going to Japan I had tried to be a melon. I applied to university, tried my best to create a normal life and just played this role of someone I was expected to be.

Then I went to Japan. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was a tomato again. I had to buy a postcard with this text in it. I think I lost it during the three months I spent in Japan but I still can’t forget this poem.

So, I don’t hate poems. Some poems touch my heart, make me smile or occasionally even laugh out loud. It’s awkward and maybe a little hostile but I love poems and writing them.

With love,

Hard To Understand Viivi