There’s this mostly unknown writer who is found in a cafe with a former lover of his. From the way he talks, he seems to be made of words and sadness and little else. A suffering face, clothes a bit out of style. Legs crossed. He listens to her talk about what was what while she was no longer his.Continue reading “[short story] hiraeth”
The very surreal feeling of wanting to end your life, especially in the loud chaos of a bustling city — a city with people and lights and billboards and cars chasing one another all day and night, headed for nowhere in particular.
The burning sensation that crawls up and down your skin as you contemplate not having to hold the world on your shoulders anymore.
The chaos, the commotion, all these perfect strangers. Motion, commotion. Emotion.
I wanted to kill myself, but instead, I sat down to write:
I keep a small revolver tucked under my pillow. Every morning, I wake up and grab the little device and turn it on all sides. I inspect it as if its power of destruction could be easily comprehended.
Sometimes I press the barrel to my right temple. My index finger curled around the trigger, I close my eyes and count to ten. Of course, the gun’s never loaded.
Nevertheless, it makes you think.
You see, this is the only power we have. True freedom, as I like to say, comes from the realization that you can kill yourself any time you want.
Sunlight slipping through the heavy curtains, casting red dots on the walls, I can feel my blood boiling inside my body. My heart beats like a fist inside my chest; the metallic coolness of the gun infects my skin.
Loaded or not, it doesn’t matter.
I’m ready to pull the trigger. I want to see God and ask Him a million questions. I press the gun to my chest and take a deep breath. “This is not my life.”
We all die and there’s nothing terrifying or great about it.
“This isn’t a life worth living.”
The gun pressed hard against my chest, right where the heart should be, I pull the trigger. That’s when I can open my eyes. That’s when I can smile. When I can feel alive just because I could’ve and yet I didn’t.
Every morning I wake up and die.
“True freedom, as I like to say, comes from the realization that you can kill yourself any time you want.”
My character’s name was Paul. A painter. An artist. The burden of his own creative genius, the pain of ideas and dreams and hopes turning to rust and stardust.
That’s why I called this story, Dream City. We often forget that nightmares are dreams too.Continue reading “Instead of Killing Myself, I Wrote a Story”
“History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.” ― Winston S. Churchill
For those of you who don’t know much about me: my name is Cristian Mihai, I am 27 years old, live in Constanta, Romania, and I have been writing for over fourteen years. Also, I do enjoy long walks (on the beach or not) and I have been blogging for more than six years.
But how did I become a writer? How did I decide to be one? What steps did I take? What happened along the way? Why didn’t I quit? What made me keep on keeping on when all hope seemed to be lost? Continue reading “The Story of a Writer”
They say the only ones who are awake late at night are the lonely and the loved. The former find it hard to fall asleep when all they have to do is dream with open eyes about their beloved. It’s almost a compulsion.
But what about the lonely? All the artists, the dreamers; the ones who hold tight to a reality they don’t understand and want to explain?Continue reading “New release: 2:22 AM”