September 26, 2020: Maybe I should start reading less

In the morning, I read the last pages of Nietzsche’s The Use and Abuse of History — now the 32nd book I read in 2020. I was happy at first, but, when I entered Goodreads to add it, I saw that I was three books behind schedule to hit my target of 48 books in 2020.

I went to the pile of unread books I have in my bedroom to choose the next book, but I got a little depressed.

One can never read enough. There is always more to read. It’s impossible to become Faustus.

And why am I reading? Why am I trying so hard to consume as many books as possible? Who am I racing or competing with? There are few people I know who read more than I do anyway. So what am I trying to achieve here?

Maybe I should slow down, read less but more carefully, write more… Think more, live more…

To acquire knowledge has been my only goal in life so far. I always wanted to know everything about everything, which is kind of — childish.

What is knowledge good for? (Foucault would say, “for cutting.”) Moreover, what am I good for?

Who do I want to be?

Aug 15, 2019: Sometimes The Story Writes Itself

I started working on a story the other day, by mistake.

It was meant to be nothing but a quick writing exercise. But as soon as I gave my character a name and wrote the first sentence, the rest of the story started writing itself.

The story’s not done yet, unfortunately, but it’s not because I ran out of ideas. It’s because I didn’t have time to finish it yet. To be honest, I’m still not sure if it’s a short story or a novella. Every time I sit at my desk, for some unknown reason, the words just come. I just type them. My fingers dance on the keyboard.

Sure, it’s a rough first draft so far. Sure, I’ll have to rewrite it at some point. But I still can’t believe it. I do not have a plot, not even a list of characters. I’m writing one event after another, one scene after another… and the words just keep coming.

I feel inspired, though I don’t know what inspired me.

Yes, sometimes the story writes itself.

You just have to be there.

August 2, 2019: Why Am I So Unhappy?

As soon as I crawl into bed, my blood starts to boil. Every night.

“I could have done this and I should have done that,” I sigh, “I wasted my day again.”

I keep promising myself things. I draw plans I will never execute. And then, I always wish I had written more, read more, worked more, loved more, ran more…

I am growing old, getting fat, losing hope, going mad.


I want to become better and do more, so where do I start?

But do more for what? What is the big dream here? What is the goal? I need an answer, but I don’t know where to find it.


I have a heart and I follow it blindly it seems, like an idiot, like an ass. There is no big dream, only impulse. No future, only present.

It is not a great thing to only live in the present.


More than once I spat at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. More than once I considered myself a failed artist. More than once I cried in despair…

I look at my paintings sometimes and wonder what will happen to them when I die. Will they ever mean anything? The observers, will they understand anything, feel anything? I don’t think so.


What am I writing? Where is this going?

I surrender.

When I look at the stars, I think of multiverses and then ask myself, “In what dimension am I worth something? In what dimension do I matter?”


Sometimes, when I am alone in some bar or coffee shop, with a notebook and a pen, things that cannot happen start happening.

Like now. I will begin right now. I will write something now.