When a writer becomes an observer. A writer must be an observer, that is definite. But when a writer has observed so much that one becomes lost for words. What then?
When the beauty of solitude once seemed poetic and what, oh what could a writer give to feel the beauty of the darkness that Herman Hesse once felt.
A writers heart is as powerful as it can be, but the writers underestimate its power.
As once the life of the Steppenwolf had seemed idyllic, becoming one is rather sad. And all a writer does – observe.

And here I am. Once a writer-wanna-be, living the lives of my dreamy characters, I gave my essence to them and lost my soul in between Camus “Outsider” and Sartre’s “Nausea”. Trying to find my passion by playing “the glass bead game”. Got lost in the search for beauty in the darkness and hope that these few years, lost in translation in my own language, is necessary in order to achieve greatness. The weight of existence been too much for the Bluebird. Hopefully, Bluebird once will be able to fly.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s