I am full of ache
I write in starts and stops, in sputterings of language.
I keep thinking about Yves Klein's work "The Void." The empty blue room, the visual, tangible representation of what I feel--vastness, smallness, a lack. Once you touch the void, you cease to be as you were. I touched it. I've never come back from it.
If he were alive, I would not have this life. So how do I accept this life? How do I not think of what could have been?
My roommates talk about their dads. They don't know mine is dead.
When I think of my father, my chest literally aches. It can't hold all the grief.
Writing as a womb, as a wound.
My mother, father, and I--the three of us were torn apart. We are gone. We will never be whole again.
I think of him constantly, relentlessly.
Grief is merciless.
The truth I cannot speak: I do not care about anything. I simply do not care.
I am pretending, unconsciously. I am surviving, and maybe that always involves some kind of acting. You can't be who you are. No one wants the real you, whatever that is. But I do know the real me. The me when I'm writing and reading and watching films and immersing myself in art, poetry, and music. That is me, and it is utterly untranslatable and unknowable.
Four years of college and I have no friends, no plans, no future, no way out, no escape.
An end gives us hope. But there is no end to the grief, the fear, the hardship, the indifference. So there is no hope.
The deepest, most dreadful thoughts come at night, in the dark. Thoughts about death, grief, and longing.
I cry for my father every night.
Loss came too early, erasing my dreams, my hopes, my illusions of safety and innocence.
I love a dead man more than a living man. No living man can compare.
Speaking exhausts me. Writing exhausts me. Every word I do write is a miracle.
I have no one to call daddy.
Birth (the film)--> about the endlessness of grief
A mystery at the heart of life: how do we die? how do we vanish from ourselves?
I want to make a film that consists only of shadows on the wall at night.
Surrender to the past.
Writing is my soul. I must never forget that.
I resist sense. I can't "make sense" of anything. My writing cannot do that. My writing is debris, the aftermath of an explosion.
I can't stop thinking of Au Hasard Balthazar, of Balthazar, at the end, lying in a field and dying, finally destroyed by the world, finally free from it.
My worst fear happened. I can't make anyone understand that. The worst happened. It was annihilating. I cannot come back from it.
I will love you until I can no longer love.