writer's prayer

Good God of words, give grace to me

I'm fighting with the words to be

I've failed to spin the net of dreams

I've lost my gift, or so it seems

forgive my prayers, I'm not worthy

I fear the muses have not heard me -

sorrow took away my words

and my poor heart, it bleeds, it hurts -

quiet now, oh child of mine

no longer can I hear you cry

you have the words, you have the gift

you simply have to clear the mist

face the fog and walk on steady

if you wait you won't be ready

sorrow cannot take your words from you

be brave, my child, and write on through

but my Lord, my Lord, please hear me

my desk, my pen, my paper – dreary!

My child, my child, just listen,

pick up the pen, let black ink glisten -

you don't know the pain, oh god -

that's hidden in the written word -

I swear, dear god, I cannot write,

most days I would just rather die!

I gave you words. I can't do more.

Just write like you have done before.

What follows? That is up to you.

If you don't believe, you cannot do.

No one else could write your tale.

There's only one way this could fail:

If you don't write it. That is all.

Your own choice – fly – or fall.

e.j.l. // 3.7.2019

a loveletter to my dead childhood pet

It's been a year since we lost you, and boy, what a year it's been. There was no one there to eat the tinsel off the christmas tree, there was no one to lie next to me or dad when we were sick, there was no cat on a lap while watching TV - you know how the little one only lies on the couch. There haven't been any falling asleep on my chest cuddles, because the little one prefers not to touch you - he likes to be pet, but he doesn't like to be picked up or to cuddle like you did.

I still cry when I think about saying goodbye, how you didn't want to get off my arms because you knew - you knew we were saying goodbye, you knew this was the last time I could put my nose in your fur and you could lick my fingers and you knew it was the last time we'd be able to touch each other. You knew this was the end and that probably hurt more than anything, that I couldn't pretend you didn't feel any fear or any hurt - you'd been hurting for years. We all knew it was coming to an end. I lit a candle on my windowsill that night, so you'd have it easier fnding a spot to rest, somewhere, out there, between the stars and between the countless other pets who'd been so much more than that. You were my TV buddy since I was three, you were my co-reader and co-sleeper, you were my family, my sibling even before my sister was born. You have been in my life for four fifth of it. You have been my biggest constant and my most comforting friend, and I still cry when I think about you, but most of the time, I smile, because we got to love you, and you loved us, and there's no doubt to that. We adopted a new kitty. We said it was to have someone to play with the small one, but in all honesty, I believe it was to try and fill the void you left, but of course there never will be one like you again. There will never be a love like your childhood pet, no matter what. You'd hate the new kitty. She's so tiny and energetic and even the small one who doesn't look small anymore compared to her - he detests her the way you detested him. I hope you feel at least a bit satisfied knowing she's annoying him as much as he annoyed you. Losing you was losing family, and it's been so hard since. I miss you still.

My friends and family recently gifted me an album full of letters and photos and there are tons of photos from when we were small, and you weren't sick and still double the size and it makes me so happy to look through those photos searching for you in the background, sitting on a chair, so much fatter than I remember, so much healthier - the fact that we saw it coming for four years hasn't made it easier at all.

This has been the longest time I've had to be without you since I was barely three. In two years, it will have been the longest I've had to be without you ever. I guess this is to say - I love you. I always have. I always will.

E

thoughts spilled on pages

And here i am, turning in circles,

writing too much about you in my journals,

being too much of myself, too greedy,

wanting too much, giving out too freely,

sharing my soul and sharing my heart

before you've even had a chance to start

feeling too attached already as if

there's only you between me and the cliff

and don't get me wrong I won't call this love yet

but I wouldn't be mad about you in my bed

though I am mad about you on my mind

I don't really like you and your kind

because you do know the way your mouth spins

smiles and laughter and so many hints

that i can't possibly carry them all

my hands and my heart are way too small

and why'd I be willing to give you a chance?

If you asked me sweetly enough for a dance

your lips curled up and your hand reaching out

i simply would take it and shush my doubt

i could study you, your movement, your words

your taste in music, your dislike of herds

because I want to know how you think

want to put it all down with my pen and my ink

want to pin you down like an insect for inspection

learn each wrinkle and each imperfection and

there's something about your eyes and your grin

that dares me to kiss you, it lures me in

despite the taste of cigarettes and lies

pretentiousness and thoughtful sighs

i do know you and your kind, my friend

and i sure do know how this story will end

in the name of what? That's how it starts:

a letter. a smile. a fragment of Marx.

Do I fascinate you or do you fascinate me?
Is there a difference to what we could be?

Am I reading too much into it already?
It's like walking a tightrope, steady, steady

i know i'm getting ahead of myself

that a conversation, a name is a mere thing on a shelf

nevertheless, my craft is spinning stories

so it would be a shame if my worries

were in the way of a good one.

a bright one. It's true.

I might have gotten too deep into you.

e.j.l. // 16.04.2019
 

turning twenty

18.06.2019

Another year gone by. That went quickly, huh? Now it's here, the big 2-0, the second decade of my life done with. That's 1/5 of a century. When my grandparents were my age, they already had their first child and had gotten married (imagine! A child at 20! Then again, if you've seen the war at 10, I don't think there's much that can frighten you anymore). And me? I'm living in a shared flat in a (still somewhat) strange city, drinking way too much coffee everyday and trying to get my anxiety in check (might there be a correlation between these two things? Who knows?)
My new train pass arrived a few weeks ago and to be honest, I was shocked. My old one is valid until one day before my birthday, and to be quite frank, I was NOT aware we already were close enough to that date for them to send me the new one. Nineteen has flown by, or so it seems looking back on it now. Time passing has always frightened me.
I think I'm starting twenty at a better place that I started nineteen, or eighteen even (let's be real, that was a shitshow). There were a lot of things I learnt in the last year; one: opportunities will not simply arise for you. They will not fall into your lap. If you want them, you'll have to work for them and create them for yourself, even if that means submitting your writing to be published and being absolutely horrified with it from the day you press "send" on the edited thing, and even if that means talking to people (not too good at this one yet). Two: I can't just wait for my next great story to write itself. I want to write, so I have to start writing and stop talking about wanting to write. Another thing I learnt (I want to say the hard way, but I'm not so sure it actually was that hard) is that in order to overcome my loneliness and my fear of people I actually have to talk to people, and that sometimes, I might even be surprised by how much they actually don't dislike me. I learnt that sometimes, there is a major difference in what you seem like and what you feel like, and that sometimes you can use that to your advantage. I've learnt that keeping the right people around you can make a huge difference in your happiness.
Nineteen was the year that marked my fourth publication in short story collections, so yay for bravery (a thing I noticed: I tend to name my short stories after their protagonists, and it's not a short story of mine if not at least one person dies), and nineteen was the year I sucked it up and went and read my story out loud in front of an audience. Nineteen was also the year that the flat I share with two other people might have just started to become a home.
Nineteen was strange, it took ages and also, didn't I just blink and wasn't I like thirteen about half an hour ago?
But all in all, when all counts are done and all is added up: nineteen was a good year. Here's to making twenty an even better one!

deep and meaningful

I struggle with making deep and meaningful connections with people. That is something I realised yesterday night as I sat at our kitchen table with my flatmate who has quickly become one of my best friends.
See, I struggle finding new friends and meeting new people. I am absolutely petrified at the thought of having to talk to strangers and I need at least a week to prepare before any sort of social event (more if people I don't know will be there) and afterwards, I need at least a week to recover from that.  That leads to me not really interacting with people, and the rare times I do attend a social event, I sit in a corner, scared of what people might think of me, that they might not like me, and don't talk to anyone, let alone anyone new. New friends mostly find me, and if they do, it's mostly in situations that have been forced on me (sorry to all my friends who's birthday parties I've attended and not been able to strike up a conversation with anyone except for the people I know very well already). When I am forced to come out of my shell and actually feel like the person I'm talking to does not hate me I do tend to overshare quite quickly. I don't even want to think about the amount of times I've probably missed a really great person because I was convinced they did not like me - that's actually a problem, and it has only come to my attention very recently when I met someone new a few months ago and was utterly convinced they disliked me so much that they'd rip my head off if I spoke another word to them again (hi, anxiety! why don't you fuck off?) only to have that person later tell me they thought I was pretty cool (take that, monkey brain!).

So. Oversharing. Once I've decided I like someone, I talk too much too fast and share too much (sorry to all the people I've rambled to about my stove or books or university or musicals or anything, actually. I know I tend to do that.) very very quickly. If I've known you over three months and I haven't shown you a photo of my cat yet there must be something wrong. I tell the people I like so much about myself, they probably don't have any space to tell me about themselves. I talk and I talk and I talk and I don't stop unless you tell me to because I want to keep the conversation going so badly, I want to keep people interested so badly, I want people to like me so badly I share everything I can. Which then leads to the "problem" I've noticed tonight at around 1:24AM in my kitchen drinking tea: because I share so broadly and widely and with so many people, there barely seems to be anything special about me rambling to someone about a musical I've enjoyed or a book I've read or something that happened. It's like if I invited someone new over to my house and instead of telling them "This is the bathroom, here is the kitchen, this is the living room, sit down if you like" I give them the full tour of the house, every drawer, every closet, and I do that for every guest ever.
I think I struggle with making deep and meaningful connections with people because I want to have that so badly that I stop focusing on each person as an individual that I can give my attention to, but become one big sharing machine dashing out information over information instead of thinking about what connects me to that particular person. I want people to like me so desperately that I forget that it's not just about me presenting the best version of me - it's about a connection. So this will be a goal I will add to my make-my-thirteen-year-old-self-proud-project for this year: engage with people, pay attention to people; make deep and meaningful connections with people.