أنت ذلك الـ "لا شيء" عندما يسألني الناس عما أفكر فيه
You're that "nothing" when people ask me what I'm thinking about."
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I’ve been telling myself the reason I can’t write anymore is because I’m not sad. Because there’s no pain inside me to flow out of my trembling hands onto paper, there are no sorrows clouding my vision to make my poetry hazy.
I can see straight and sometimes I feel poetry needs to be twirly and zigzagg-y.
But, I’ve been trying to be sad lately. Trying to find wretchedness among the mists, among the nights I stay up laughing, trying to feel what I felt before, trying to pour poetry back into my veins. Maybe this is some stupid excuse.
But here’s how it really is. I keep finding myself beaming at unfamiliar faces and sipping hot chocolate over brunch dates with new friends, or falling back into rhythm with old ones.
Or that one time I snuck out to my best friend’s house and we danced to alcohol in our bodies but we were sober enough to remember one of the best nights of our life. So maybe there’s nothing poetic about this. Or maybe there is.
I know poetry is more beautiful than sad and there’s something really very beautiful about loving life.
-H.S.
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First page of The Adventures of Tintin: The Black Island (Casterman, 1966), written and illustrated by Hergé.
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“I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling.”
― The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
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