Son of sorrow

Chess is the only sexy sport, I think.

The worst thing about my genius is that so far, it seems to have come without insanity. Every now and then I think that I must be going crazy, but I never do. My head is painfully clear, for now. This could be an illusion, of course, but I truly believe that I'm completely sane. It's a horrible feeling. Genius without insanity can only mean pain. Clarity hurts. I could use the fog.

I guess I've become an insomniac. It's not that I couldn't sleep if I tried, the problem is that I don't try. I have too much to do.

I've always been strangely uninterested in going to bed, but lately it's been worse than ever. I simply don't sleep. This is destroying me physically and possibly mentally. Now, a weird question: could this have something to do with the fact that James Dean was an insomniac? I've noticed that I sort of STEAL stuff like this from interesting people sometimes; sometimes I adopt certain traits of certain people naturally, without properly realizing what I'm doing.

Why did James Dean look like this?



Because he didn't sleep. I find it very unlikely that I would actually imitate his insomnia, but it's still a slight possibility, and I like it because, wow, isn't that fascinatingly stupid.

I spent a week travelling through Finland. Had to do some research and take some pictures for my book (which, to my surprise, seems to be so amazing that I actually found myself crying reading it). Didn't really sleep. Then I decided to go home and spent 13 hours on a bus. Hopped in at 5 PM, hopped out at 6 AM; I travelled through night inside a dark long-distance bus and there was a HUGE red moon hanging above the lakes and the forests, and it was beautiful, it was so beautiful that I felt that I really had to punch someone, or have sex with someone, or drown, or whatever, I had to do something to handle all that beauty. But there was nothing to do but sit.

Travelling through Finland in 2014 is not as glamorous as travelling through America sixty decades ago, but I guess I make a stupid, lazy version of Jack Kerouac. But I'm a better writer. I also thought about Arthur Rimbaud and I thought that what I'm doing is something much greater than anything he ever did. He didn't make any sense, and that is boring. Never before has a young writer done something even comparable to what I'm doing. I'm telling big stories.

Here we go again. Arrogance is my greatest flaw. But let me have it. I need it. I am disgustingly arrogant, and I know that it must be horribly annoying, but this is me. Take it or leave it. Sometimes I fear that this part of me could destroy everything, ruin my chances. But becoming successful as someone that I'm not... would I want that? Would I?

At least for now, I'm going to hold on to this. After all, my arrogance has been the thing that's kept me breathing and moving for several years. It's helped me. I need to cling to something.

The problem with the world is that bad and stupid people are so confident and arrogant and loud, and good and intelligent people are constantly doubting and belittling themselves. Somebody needs to disturb this balance.

Besides, I know that I'm good. This could be another illusion, but I sincerely think that I'm really, really good at this.

There are individuals that I like a lot, but generally, I don't really care for people. I care about people, they must have rights like all sentient beings and I probably treat them better than most people who claim to love people do. What I'm saying is that I'm not a fan of this species. We have a great tendency to goodness, but the other tendency is something that I absolutely hate. Goodness usually ends up winning, but the situations before that are incredibly painful to watch; people are my least favourite animal.    

The question is: do you want to be the loser who escaped the intolerant little town and saved the world, or do you want to be the intolerant little town?

And if you make art, the question is: if you tell a story of pain, do you actually know how pain feels? Have you felt it, for real? Do you know how fucking much it hurts to hurt? And what about joy? Fear? Loneliness? Bitterness? Disappointment? Love? Are they just words, or have you lived them?

I have a plan:

I will live two lives.

In the first one, I'll write 4 novels: Post Mortem, Flesh, Losers and Folie à deux. I'll write one autobiography. At the same time, I'll do my best to start a revolution within the animal rights movement: I'll give it a solid plan. A direction. I'll do my best to make it something a thousand times more effective than what it currently is. (I'll start a couple of smaller revolutions, too.)

Then: I'll finally be in a position where I can say that I've done all I had to do. The best this one person could do. I'll breathe out and retire and begin a second life. This life will be modest and serene. I will live like an ordinary person. I'll have an unimportant job. I'll have good people around me. I'll live for small things.

There are two reasons.

1: The life I'm now starting is extremely stressful and tiring psychologically. I won't be able to do this if I think that it's going to be a life sentence.

2: It's all about stories. Short ones are prettier.

Thanks. I'll go away now. But I'll return. Apparently, I just can't stay away from this blog completely. Maybe I don't have to. This could work: writing something sometimes.