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

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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

First snow blues

Second of December
First snow. I want to hate it. It means winter, coldness, wearing too many clothes all the time and never going outside. Snow means one year is coming to the end too soon. What there is not to hate? And still, I am like a kid. Running around trying to catch the snowflakes with my tongue. Everything turns white and looks so magical. People are laughing after long dark autumn and children running around making snow angels. What there is not to love? How could I hate this?

 

(This is text I wrote earlier this year during the first snow. I wanted to publish it but I just didn’t have anything else to say. So, here it is. Why do you hate and love first snow?)

With love,

Childish Viivi