This is what I thought of when I read this @ek if you are lucky you will meet the doomer girl of your dreams. It will be absolute chaos and you will love it and hate it at the same time.

Wrt writing, here's my current struggle.

For the last three years I've done a story a week. Some of these have been really good. Some have been okay. Many, recently, have been shit, just awful. I can't seem to find anything to be excited about, and if you're not excited it shows.

And then I look at my daily logs, and there's so much that I'm excited about. Like, bursting with things. Without a moment's hesitation I'll toss off hundreds of words full of energy and life. Yet when I am purposefully framing the act as "It is time now to produce an interesting piece" what emerges is dead. Something about the intention drains the blood and joy from it.

The spirit of play seems important. The difference between work and play, even when the actions themselves are the same. I'm trying to figure this out. But it seems very easy to look in the wrong place, solve the wrong problem.

The ties between love and attention are strong. But also between attention and life, and life and writing. I think it's about putting something into the world, into a relationship, and having that offering be accepted and returned to you.

The improvisation that unfolds when A reacts to B reacts to A. Minus that you're dead, or just shouting into the void.

The seeking of it is the only thing there is, it's just this gets covered up because the surface form of the seeking is so different.

it’s good to cry at your own writing, everyone should do it lol. It’s like a cleansing rain. a release.

thanks for reminding me of my journal. I actually edited that page out of my website the other day and changed it to display the zines, but haven’t pushed it yet. maybe there’s a reason to keep it up. Also I haven’t written anything nor have I focused on writing in a long time. I think I will begin again.

You know I could write theses after theses; you just broke a damn part of me. I am not a narcissist either but let me tell a story.

I was 17 then. The age ripe for new love, creating new memories and changing partners in this horrible generation. I was always an old timer among my friends. They called me "delusional" because I did not look up to girls the way they did. My friends all had by now 5-6 exes and here I was stuck with just 1 for about 3 years and am still single. They said I was destroying myself because not moving on means I can't accept changes. But my perception of her was different. It wasn't change, it was, it was the cease of change. Eventually, my old friends got separated as their partners thought me "invisible and nerdy" - all I could do was my thing, excel at academics, studying, doing my work. But why? I was an introvert. I did not know how to communicate with people, make friends and share emotions the way everyone did. I was afraid of the unknown force that might make me bow my head down if I did or said something wrong. Then one day I got grouped with her for my annual science exhibition. Just like any random girl, I did not find any interest in her - or perhaps I did not know what it meant to be "interested", but I was too fast to judge myself. I realized the heart needs more time to accept what your mind already knows. Then came the day of the exhibition. The halls echoed with the murmur of rehearsed lines and the confidence of other students. She walked beside me, not ahead, not behind. She didn’t wear perfume like others, but she smelled like freshly printed books and mild soap, something comforting, something real. We worked for weeks together, building a prototype of biodegradable plastics that gave us the first prize. But it didn’t matter. Somewhere between soldering wires and arguing over which chart to use, I started noticing her laugh, not loud, not fabricated, but the kind that escapes when you genuinely forget to hold it in.

I found myself waiting for our work sessions, not for the project, but for her. She didn’t talk too much, nor did I. It was the silence that bound us. That silent kind of understanding that doesn't scream for attention. I didn’t even realize I was falling, no butterflies, no violins in the background. Just this steady rhythm, like a tide inching its way toward the shore, refusing to retreat.

But like most tides, it was never meant to stay.

She never looked at me the way I did at her. Maybe she did, but not in the way I hoped. Maybe I was just... convenient. A study partner, a quiet guy with no drama and a sense of decency, a rare breed in our generation. Maybe she liked that comfort. But comfort is boring to most. We chase storms.

When the exhibition ended, so did our frequency. The late-night calls turned to muted chats, then to nothing. It wasn’t a breakup, because there was never an “us.” It was the quiet ghosting that people nowadays romanticize as “fading away.”

But the thing is, she didn’t leave me hollow. She filled me in a way that made emptiness more tolerable. Like she taught me how to bleed and smile at the same time. I had changed to a more free person who could discuss with others, socialize and respect people.

My friends mocked me for holding on. “She wasn’t even yours, bro.” I know. That’s the damn point. You don’t have to own a star to be mesmerized by its light.

I didn’t fall in love with her face or the sound of her name....I fell for the version of myself I became when she was around. A little braver. A little less invisible.

I haven’t moved on, not because I’m stuck, but because some experiences aren’t meant to be replaced. They're meant to be carried, like a scar you don’t want to heal, because pain, too, is proof you once felt deeply in a world that’s forgotten how to. I'm still madly searching for her on social media platforms, if she has any connections with her old friends, if she got any job, etc. after we lost connection when we became alumnis.

So here I am now, a little older, maybe wiser. I still sit in crowded rooms and feel unseen. Still excel at things that don’t matter to most. Still writing, still reminiscing.

And maybe, just maybe, that's not destruction. Maybe that’s preservation.

After all, some hearts are libraries, not cafes. They're not meant for everyone to enter, but for a few to leave bookmarks in. I am too just a useless person after all in this huge universe.

So if you learnt something from her Mr. @ek , it's a request. Don't forget her :)

Ok, we need a possibility to have our own blogs which are not part of the territory, but accessible from the profile page! Somebody code it:))

So now ol' man is writing a diary :)