Hello my love, how goes it in the land of Russia?@newttimes
Hello! Saint Petersburg is very hot this year. It has been very hot since we arrived in the city, staying at about thirty degrees every day. No rain yet, which I would like to see - I’m sad to hear I’m missing out on thunderstorms at home, they’re my favourite. We didn’t get the WiFi sorted in the flat until the end of the second day, so I have to say that the feeling of isolation was pretty exaggerated that first night! Since then it’s been absolutely fine but I’ve tried not to spend all my time glued to my laptop. It makes me grumpier if all I do is dwell on what I’m missing (and wow, has it taken me a long time to learn that!).
Tonight we intend to see a kind of light show on the River Neva, very late in the evening, and then stay to watch the bridges open (which I’ve never seen before, despite coming here every year)! Then we hope to see The Museum of Zoology (which has a free admission day on the last Thursday of the month) and The Hermitage - the best museum of all, and my absolute favourite. That will be the following Thursday, just before I come home.
I am a little homesick. But it’s only a month, and a busy one!
I just do art because I’m ugly and there’s nothing else for me to do.
It is often said that you should endeavour to find someone who talks about you like you put the stars in the sky. Someone who is your world. Someone who makes you feel “complete”. He is none of those things. He is the stars in my sky: tiny pinpoints of brightness in an endlessly vast, dark and confusing eternity. The only thoughts I can connect. He’s not my world. A world is the space in which I can live, and I can move away from my world even in my mind. No, he is more like a universe. He envelops my existence and I cannot escape it, not even if I wanted to - I wouldn’t know how, because how does one even think about not existing? I don’t mean dying. I mean my matter being dispersed across all aspects of time and space that I have ever been in, converted into new, different energy. That is an impossible thought, because I feel so real. He doesn’t make me feel “complete”, he makes me feel real. I exist, in his universe that I am so enthralled in, and I have no intention of ever not being his reality.
Even the writing about writer's block is beautiful. Your words are precious and beautiful and you ARE significant. I'm not a star and I wish I was, and if I was I'd tell you just how important you are.@Anonymous
Wow thank you, I really needed to hear that today (or any day, really). I think every creative person feels insecure and insignificant or like their work doesn’t have integrity or isn’t meaningful, but these messages make all the difference! Have a great day.
I’ve finally grasped at the clock hands; acquired hours upon hours of time; collected seconds of my own under the mattress. But instead of letting my creativity finally spill over, I feel useless. Everything I write might as well be written on the back of empty packets of coffee and other items in the pile of screwed up ideas I keep throwing out, traced in the dust of burnt out incense or emptied out down the drain. I can’t write, I can’t even speak. I peel my lips apart each morning to greet a cup of coffee and another day where pen doesn’t touch paper without being mingled with tears of frustration. I am just a writer in a sea of writers, drowning. The words are blunt and hard to wield, and I feel as a single droplet of water echoing against the walls of a cave, insignificant and fleeting in existence. ”I am significant!” I shout through my window, demanding of the stars, but I know when they don’t answer me, that I’m not at all.