Perhaps the most important Piece I have ever written:

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Perhaps the most important piece I have ever written:

(LOG: 01. July 2022, we have moved on.

It has left me. In fact, many things have by now. I have no clue where hope went, or the never-tiring euphoria of my future acts, or love for places and conversations that are yet to come. All I think to know is, that there is a point I have hit again that seems to feel even lower than rock bottom this time. Time, by the way, is moving far too fast for me to adjust all the pieces in need to be glued back together again. I have countless passions and muses but all there is, is too little time and too much commotion; both around me and inside. Frankly, I don’t understand why things are never working out for me the way I thought they ought to. I witness so, so many, many people being enabled and allowed, even vastly supported, to carve their dreams into reality - and then there is me. And I am okay, but “okay” just is never going to suffice. I am exhausted of meeting stuff halfway when all the way would barely do my aspirations justice. I don’t understand whether I should give up, or let go, or walk away from this all. Start over again, reinvent myself again, begin something different again, again and again and again. For what exactly? I still hope, sitting here and coming up with these lines like a fervent, sort of crazed ritual, that this will be a letter I can look back to in retrospect from the other side in a while, on my way to making it. But I don’t know if anything is even remotely real anymore. People don’t seem to care about poetry… until their father dies. There is no time for a book about suicide when the world is on fire. Clothes and make-up and aesthetics and cooking bring me so much joy, at least watching other people do that, and the concept of one day being able to come close to who they are, but what if this is never going to happen for me? Finding simplicity, joy, success in what I love the most. For so many years now, I have been 100% certain that being a writer, director, producer, actress, and inspiration to people is my calling. But I have come to question whether that is even true. Because if it were, wouldn’t things begin to move in my direction? So far, I can only feel them slipping away like wet bars of soap. That is all there is, being left with whatever it is that I have thus far owned. Do I need to give up? It seems so contradictory since I am so sure that this is the right decision for me. How am I to let go something I know deep down to be the sole thing that is made for me? How do I give up the sole thing that serves every aspect and corner of my purpose? I wish there were an end to the suffering of being an artist and just the artistry itself that remains. It would be nice to feel something other than incomparable doom for once. I don’t want to stand corrected for not coming up with a Plan B. And I still believe in my aims, ironically enough now more than maybe ever before, but if nothing works out, then why begin to bother again? I probably lack guidance and clues and safety, but how am I supposed to earn these things if not from signs given to me that I just can’t seem to receive or make out or interpret? I am waiting for a house near London, a warm husband to love, my stories to be listened to all over the world, a different life I could finally endure and actually understand… Lessons I have learned made my skin shed, manifestation and laws of the universe made my brain ache, I made my heart cry rivers and oceans of resentment and angst. I am right where I was, or am I? Merely a nudge from someone or something, that would be helpful. And if nothing continues to meet me, all I am is a spiraling construct on the brittle stages of the world I will never see as a platform for my books. A spinning ball of nerves on a spinning ball of worlds, spinning around other networks and mysteries. Maybe I am a joke. Trying to make things fit that ought to explode into voids, trying to heal myself when I am still traumatized unaddressed, trying to build dreams on soils of lava, trying too hard to try. What the fuck?!! And then I have everything I need right here, just nothing I want. A flat in a city I want to leave, friends that I cherish but are too caught up in themselves (which is fine), books that are finished but not published, a body that functions but hurts, ideas that are always racing but out of reach, happiness that comes in more ebbs than flows, vices and coping mechanisms I would like to maroon but they have become too much of a support system. Saturday’s exhilarations, that is that. Going to the cinema, watching movies and driving to the airport, watching planes. But I want to be in both, not staring at them in envy. I want to be in them, around them with more purpose than anticipation for dates that have never been scheduled. Is it luck or trust that I am missing? Are my hunches and premonitions liars? Gut feeling= bellyache? Here lies the body of confusions, confessions, contradictions; and it is never, ever resting. Never, ever silent. My walls of tissue hold every notion of mine as if it were a baby to still be cradled, but what happens when that very baby has already grown up and needs to be let go? And am I still holding onto it even when already having let go? Am I my worst enemy? The sarcasm has gone, in one way or the other. I am not the prettiest person, I am not an expert on one specific topic, I am not soft or tough, rushed or impatient, trusted or lonely. I am a nuance, I am the gray area in between contrasts, I am always going to be floating around in the middle of things, I am afraid, too. But I am a writer, writing stories and poems and scripts and opinions and jokes and tragedies and this. That is the only thing I can be in this form of life: A human being who helps others to come forward and tell their own stories by sharing mine with the world. A human being that is, simple yet unapologetic, extravagant yet nonchalant, good yet bad, nuanced. There lies the sense of things I have been able to grasp up until this point in time. My nail beds are blue from typing again, my other bed still has to be made. It is another Friday afternoon, wearing the same jogging pants, worrying about the same obstacles that might as well be fiction, but I wrote different lines today. Whether to ever share them is not of any importance right now. However, a plan just might be. Or not.

I am forever here. Your shoulder,

M.

Thoughts? And prayers. Thx