Writing


Fairytales and death fantasies

From around the mid 90’s until the end of the first decade of the 21st century, I wrote. I wrote a lot. Now I’m thinking about getting back into writing.

I wrote poetry, over 250 poems, one-liners and pagefillers, silly, smart, an emotional gutpunch sometimes and utter shit. I wrote prose, fairytales, desperate adolescent death fantasies, drugfueled teenage angst, strange tales, short and longer even.

Encounters & perambulations

Also from July 21st 2000 to July 21st 2006 I kept an online journal. An early blog of sorts, in which I would document my days. Gave an account of my encounters & perambulations, whilst obscuring identities of the people in my life and ranted poetically -or not so poetically- in a fog of magical realism and mind altering substances about my surging emotions and ceaseless thoughts. Writing kept me sane.

All gone?

Last week one of my 3TB harddrives crashed. After the initial dread and panic that always accompanies these events, had subsided a bit, I found out that most of my archive of writings was on that drive. I’m not after suspense here, I managed to salvage all of it.

Dark alleys

Having been toying with a vague desire and even vaguer plans to start writing again, anything, for a couple of months now, I was tempted to read some of the old work, rescued from the clutches of digital oblivion. Some poems, which I had to convert from a WordPress format into something a little more modern before I could do so. A bit of my journal (July 26th 2003 to July 21st 2004), which I generally avoid because it disturbs, upsets and depresses me too much. I have to be careful on these trips down dark memory alley.

Out in the open

I’m wondering if I should put it all online somewhere. The poems, stories, thoughts, the journal even. On my website, on Facebook, somewhere else? Just to have it be out there in the world. Maybe not. Not all of it is good. And I’m flattering myself here. Most of it is bad. And it’s personal. A lot of it is dark. The journal-stuff is downright disturbing. But still. I don’t want to hide, not who I was, not who I am, I wrote for a reason. I want to find a reason to write again. A better one than the fire that used to thrust me, which was composed of fear, anger, frustration, guilt, lust and depression.

Maybe lifting the veil on my past writings will help spur me on. I like to think that there’s something new ahead. That’s not how it used to be. Slowly, carefully forward. Forward. Here are my words.