Category: Okategoriserade

One morning I suddenly realised my parents did give me a knowledge of great value. They will never know. They were born around 1916 and died in 2007. I learned that it is a dramatic difference between being told about danger and death and actually meeting it.
As a baby, I think I knew about death before I learned what any spoken or written word meant. During my first year, the second world war was going on. Sweden as a nation was not directly engaged in it. But we were undoubtedly threatened by it. I guess no individual in Europe could miss the atmosphere spreading from the battle of Stalingrad. I imagine that this condition did set the base tone for my mother when she was breastfeeding her first child, me. Eleven months later, death came even closer. My aunt died in an accident. I presume my mother did emotionally disappear into her sorrow. I did not detect any early warning signal.
I learned this the hard way. I learned death before anything else. As a consequence, I am afraid of terminating anything. That includes a relation, a habit, an ongoing project or my ownership of things. It does even include the burden of being clever beyond my capacity and not to trust anyone else in handling myself.
Furthermore, I learned to accept even mediocre conditions for living. One consequence is positive. I go along and accept life as it is. Another is negative. I stay far too long in conditions and habits that need to be terminated. I have impregnated my living with fearing death beyond the level of words.
This minute one questionable habit is on stage. I do write in my black notebook every day. I have done so for more than 60 years. I have engraved this habit in my soul as a way to handle myself. By writing down what is disturbing me, I dismiss that from my daily agenda. The material in question stay forgotten and I could go on following the track I believed was my track. This habit makes me rely on words, thinking and my intellect. This activity shadows what I feel.
A lot of material has been stored in my unconscious. Stuff that can be used either way: creatively or destructively. Recently this has become evident when I write. I freewrite and detect that my act reveals a lot of words. Some are distracting. Others carry ideas looking bright and fresh. I need to sift out the nuggets and leave to mud and sand. I see no simple solution. Each statement has to be judged by its quality. Previous sentences or the act of writing itself does not make me accept each sentence coming out. It is hard work to build my trust in the words I write. My experience in writing about technical stuff is of no help. In this case the statements to trust rest on firm evidence and scientific facts. For me, personal statements are far more difficult to judge. It does takes time as I have to let them rest for at least a month. Then, I could see more clear what my written words tell. My image of what I want them to tell shadows what they might tell the reader.

I believe there is a fear behind the way I act. It does affect my style of writing a well as my behaviour in a more general sense. I am not conscious of this fear although In my actions I detect patterns that may have fear as a root. I assume that the fear in question is ”not getting a second chance”.

Is it true that this type of fear resides in me? It is a tough question. To answer, I need to begin thinking and to make use of a lot of words. I risk to lose contact with this fear and bury it again. But, at the other extreme, by using words I may actively speculate in this pain and risk making it exist and be permanent. From this, I conclude that my words and intellect may not be reliable tools anymore. I have invested a lot in using them and relying on them and on what I have reached. In this, I see a reason why I tend to get stuck in a self-reflective writing style most of the time.

What grounds do I have to assume I carry this fear? The answer is, I tend to avoid conflicts and avoid reaching goals and be measured. Once I enter a project, I will stay forever. I tend to act as an ambitious and dependable character with curiosity.

But, the task was to name the truth behind my fear. I almost created me a decoy manoeuvre when answering that question. How do I put words on something I have worked hard to hold myself not conscious of?

I cannot go on with my old style of writing. Today’s assignment was, to tell the truth about my fear, and I would make my best attempts in doing so. I have to start to step into my fear. I could easily avoid it by describing it or compare it. That would be to avoid the truth.

There is one moment in my life when I sense a severe pain. That is when my kids or grandkids approach a steep scarp with no or limited protection. I sense a sharp physical pain in my body. I fancy that someone is cutting in me with a sharp knife. And this someone selects a most vital organ, my pouch. The feeling is unbearable. I cannot stay in contact with it for any length of time. Within milliseconds I abandon it. I do that by thinking about it and focusing on something else. Thoughts about myself become handy. They are easy to mobilise and help me focus on something different. I have no idea if this pain and the one I always try to escape from is the same.

I think of this event when I was eleven months old. The facts tell me that my aunt died in an accident when she was out biking. I assume that my mother suddenly changed her behaviour and attitude versus me. I presume, I felt rejected and I did never get a chance to come close to her again. Presumedly, I believed it was my fault and acted accordingly. I assume that at this event I ignited my style of living. I presume, this event created a pain in me that was unbearable. I did not have any alternative but to handle myself. I built myself a multitude of distraction manoeuvres. I could quickly begin to list them and risk burying me in that list and all associations that may come. But still, these statements are nothing but descriptive. At the moment, I cannot step into the feelings any better than when forming the above comments.

When I wrote this text.I met a part of me I had not met before That is, I became conscious about the risk of using my words and intellect for decoy manoeuvres. Thus I cannot trust these tools in delivering what I want. I want them to contribute to me being a sincere, honest, authentic, and always close to the true character.

180210

Göran Stille

I have trained a habit of writing every day. I face questions about this.They come from inside me as well as from people around me. They sound like:
◦ Am I a writer?
◦ May I call me a writer?
◦ Who may call him or her a writer?
◦ When do I go from being a writer to being an author?
These questions puzzle me. There seem to be guilt games moving around in the bushes. They sound like:
◦ I know this, you need to have done this or that before it is legitimate for you to call yourself a writer or an author!
I think the use of the ”title” of being a writer or author has nothing to do with what it is all about. You may allow yourself to play the role of a writer or author. It may help you to grow an attitude adequate for writing. Thus writing this title on your business card is legitimate.

What is it all about?
To release my creativity when writing, I must work with my way to handle personal obstacles. It is a terrible challenge to anyone. Individuals of the human species have one dominant characteristic. They tend to continue doing what the have done. Unfortunately, this happens even if external circumstances have changed significantly. If I did not write earlier in life, I need to face the issue of learning it. What does this mean, being a grownup and in retirement? I have to change my concepts of learning, unlearning habits, attitudes, values. It does also include challenges to my way of thinking and reacting. It challenges my idea of identity. Am I the man to do this? Or have I used my experiences to create me a jail built with questions that have no answer.
But, for me, the core of writing has been to build myself a need for doing it and with doing it with authenticity. After a few months of practical experience, I concluded that my first step was to train myself to respect a space inside me that was not occupied. The intruders were my habits, values, and my way of thinking. At times I felt as if my identity was challenged. About 33 years ago, the conscious part of my mind registered this concept for the first time. Being conscious has in my case not been enough to change my behaviour. How come?

I believe that when I approach an empty space, I suffer from intense and troublesome feelings. During my years of living, I have established a reliable defense system protecting me from sensing these feelings. I must say this defense is working well. I do not detect any horror when approaching an empty space. But, when I look in the back mirror on my behavior, I conclude that something is there. I act as if there is a horror controlling me. I find this emotion must live in my unconscious.

The hard thing has been that my whole mind and body objected to the task of writing at least 500 words a day. But I decided to give it a try. After all, they told me I did only need to deliver 30 days of pure hard discipline to do it. So I did gave it a try. Out of this practical experience lust and desire to write emerged. My lust concerned the joy of putting one word after another and to observe, with curiosity, where they went. I watched the words flow and saw me saying things I would not dream of saying. In some cases statements that were essential to my life. Many times, I asked my self:
◦ Did I think or say this myself or where did I get these fresh ideas and thoughts?

Since I started, I have written near to a million words. The quality of my writing improves. I think my authenticity, focus, and coherence improves. I have received feedback telling me this. I feel proud. Later my words flow even regarding what I want to say. I interpret this as if I am beginning to say what I can say and need to say. I hope my use of words have abandoned my old style of writing. I think my use has become more earthbound. My words concerns this moment, my immediate surroundings, and me. In other words less of immolating words on a virtual altar of ambitions and achievements.
So I return to the title: ”Me, a writer?” I chose not to answer this question. One million words ago I was no writer. My way to write improves and will continue to do so in mysterious ways. After all, with no previous practical experience in writing, I would not be able to know my way forward.

In conclusion:
◦ Am I a writer now?
◦ Maybe. Maybe not. Do I care? I enjoy writing.

Göran Stille

 

(755 words)
Today I have assigned myself to write about my most significant and most pertinent fears. I mean the ones that strike the most, in intensity as well as frequency. And then write a paragraph or two for each, asking myself what would happen if that fear came true. I managed to find some of my fears but was not able to say anything about what would happen if that fear came true

Which of my fears is Number 1? I suspect that my top fear is a devious one. I do not have any direct sense of it. But, in my way of living, I identify elements that are possible consequences of intense fear. Behind my way to act, there might be a fear of rejection and to be abandoned. In a strict sense I can do nothing but speculating about it, which in turn is a risky business. I cannot give myself a solid proof of it. The whole thing may be nothing but a ghost of the mind. That is fear Number 2

How do I react to what I say above? All through my living, I have been a somewhat conscientious character. I am reading people near to me. I read sub-tones in their voices, facial expressions, attitudes and bodily posture. I do my best to adjust and avoid conflicts. On occasions, I jump out of this and take steps I call brave. They are rare, and I cannot interpret them as signs of me having a bold and outgoing personality.

Since an early age, I have reflected on myself and my behaviours. I have interlocked the use of words, concepts and thinking with these concerns. This act helped me to stay on track and do what I think I was supposed to do. I have used this action extensively. This practice has formed my way of using words. In puberty, this practice moved over to writing in a black notebook. This book served as a type of wastebasket. I did not apply any retrieval operations to what I wrote. Later on, a lot of early warning signals must have gone the same way. At this moment I have done this for more than half a century.
During the last three years, I have engaged myself in writing of at least 500 words a day. I have done ”free writing”. That is to leave editing and correction of my text to a later moment. My experience from writing in my notebook became an easy way to fill this request for 500 words a day. Presently the quality of my writing has become irritating to me. I continue writing in a self-reflective style. I feel trapped in my words and thoughts. In other words, my ”free writing” is not free at all when I look at about what I am writing. It is as if I have built me a lovely looking castle using mental bricks. I fear this castle is turning back on me. I feel jailed by it.

But what is happening at this point in this text? My words flow nicely, as do sentences and my story. Do they assist my writing in closing in on my fear? Or do they distract the reader and me from the core of the story? Do they make it disappear into a nearby forest? Is this my uttermost fear? To use words in a way that assures me walking astray and thus causing a rejection? (Fear Number 3).
I do not feel physically rejected. When growing up, I received adequate care on physical and practical levels. Later on, I have been able to support myself in the same sense. It is merely my soul, spirit and ability to play that longs for support. Maybe that is not a bad thing after all. If only I could accept this state of affairs, all the way
Fear Number 4 might exist slumbering behind my defence lines. I call it fear of playing. I avoid coming in contact with this fear by acting far too severe for my good. But, one game I have played. That is the role of playing the victim. I have used minor glitches of malfunction in a decent upbringing as motivations. This game is no fun anymore. I am bored to a standstill. I better switch over and do something crazy and utterly useless.

Fear Number 5 is that I fear not being able to know what I need to know to take care of myself.

 

(441 words)

Do I struggle with fear in general or with fear for writing in particular? Do I sense fear or do I just speculate if there is an emotion of fear behind what I do and not do? Or am I too ingenious in avoiding the issue, that I do not feel it? I may consume a lot of my energy in this strategy of avoidance. I must fear something as I plough up this pile of questions before me.
I fear that my questions will not reveal anything. As long as I proceed analytically, I will not explain a thing. I cannot answer these questions. Instead, I believe my obstacles to writing reside in my unconscious. Scratching the surface will do nothing but making them harder and more elusive.
Yesterday, I was processing my text about what has happened in my writing during last week. I noticed one new perspective. I saw my active interest in nuances of my expressions, words and statements. I suspect that this attention to details might make me blind to far more critical issues. Like: “what story do I tell” and “how do I build that story or argument”?

Did I find any other fear worth mentioning when I was brainstorming about it? Maybe I saw a fear that I have taken comprehensive measures to hide. This issue about attending too much to details seems to reflect back on me profoundly.
When brainstorming about fears, I found fourteen samples of possible fears. Do I fear to select one primary fear? My associations jump to the question: ”Do I act this way in fear that there will be ”no second chance.” I have to be right the first time. Thus I end up making an inventory of alternatives. At the same time, I make it impossible for me to make any analysis and decision. I fear I will not receive a second chance. I suspect this is a thing with some odd ends in my personality. It does influence whatever I do. Not just writing. It might be a thing of rejection, once and for all, whatever I do. In fact, this fear increases when I feel I have done something that is ”good”. Then I tend to be extremely sensitive to early warning signs of rejection to come. The sad thing is that I tend to interpret that these signs exist where they do not exist.

This last reasoning is meandering. Maybe you got lost on the way. None the less I think I have stepped on something essential here. Perhaps it will become more evident in the days to come.

 

Too much water, sand and clay and no visible nuggets.

I have been free writing for a significant number of days. Old habits in my way to write have taken too large a grip on the content of my free writing. I long for old habits to withdraw and new ones to emerge. I became interested in following the prompts given by James Prescott. He distributes them to you if you subscribe to a group on Facebook named ”Writers Together.”

How did this first week go with prompts from James? I start answering this question by beginning in the other end. This morning, and in my local newspaper, I read about being creative. The argument was that if you make different parts of your brain to cooperate, then you will become creative. To me, this statement is of low, almost no value. It is easy to formulate it and to pretend that it is that missing piece of essential information. But it has limited value as compared to the efforts, skills and stamina I need to make my brain act that way.

I think of this as an example of a way to threat knowledge that is destructive. Unfortunately, I often handle knowledge this way myself. But, I would prefer if it happened less frequent. Maybe it is a cultural thing. In the culture I live in, the underlying code is that being conscious is of high value. We teach the coming generation that so it is. But we make it a one-sided teaching. We avoid all the negative consequences of this attitude and this mode of education. We blind ourselves to the limits of the brand of learning that is the consequence. We become blind to the fact that remembering knowledge does not influence our actions. Not to any great extent. In fact, a set of different parameters controls the way we act. They do not include that of conscious memory of knowledge.

What does control what happens? The widespread and conscious knowledge is not always in control. Humans have experienced many examples when this is not the case. Some are historical. Some are going on in the world just now. Obscure and individually carried agendas have their say.

But stop here. I am slipping away from what I started to write. What does the above statement have to do with answering the call? I think that the questions given do influence me to respond analytically. That is to tickle nothing but one side of my brain. And that has little to do with doing the same the other half. And with making my halves cooperate.

So I feel forced to answer the question above through acting and acting only. So what am I to do? I observe my words and thoughts. I conclude they run along old tracks. I need to take a firm grip on what I think of valuable habits and elements of my identity. I need to jump straight out into the wilderness. I need to disconnect from seeing or remembering a thing. I need to detach from any idea of what I am about to do. This concept would scare my old self. Scare it stiff. But trying to play the role of an author means to do this.

Talking about or action? Now?……

Once upon a time. He sat in a decent chair writing his daily chunk of words. He scratched his right chin. He sensed that there was a minimal inflammation at the root of one of this teethes. A minor disturbance that stayed stable through the last three years, at least.

Outside the morning was cold. A mist had clouded his view for the last hour. Now, the sun started to show who is in charge of this day in January. His responsibility this day, was to take care of the dog of his son. The son and his family visited a beautiful place in the south of Europe called Cap Verde. The dog was at rest warming his feet.

Now is a moment when everything is okay. No agenda, plan, rules or regulations are stealing the show. Moments like this one has been rare to him ever since he was born. Now he slipp into these moments at increased frequency.

His style of writing did annoy him. Its was adequate long time ago but not today. He had to find another form, a new and more rewarding one. All sorts of ambitions were waiting in the bushes. They could make him terminated his efforts before he even got started. So he decided not to take any notice of them. Not in the stage of free writing. He considered editing as the phase to take care of them.

I feel that my writing runs in a new way using James´ prompts. But I believe this change is not that much dependent on the articulation of these prompts. I think the reason is that some change has happened to me, to the author to come. I read these prompts in a new manner. I run along writing in a way that is more free. So my gain from 1200 days of free writing is due to something I cannot describe. I do not have words for it. At least I do not want to put words to it.

Although, one specific thing is worth mentioning. During this last week, I have published my writing on a blog. I lock back on these entries and conclude that it was far easier to summarize seven days of writing. I have had the ambition to approach the outcome of my 1200 days of writing. But that was impossible. Too much water, sand and clay and no visible nuggets.

(483 words)

As told by my present master in writing, I did take a walk instead of my morning writing. A few odd ideas arrived while doing it.

One concerned beliefs, ideas, plans, goals, agreements, and rules. I considered them all having the same quality. I use them to rescue myself from encountering contact with that big space inside that is housing endless of possibilities. It sounds almost religious, but in my case, it is not. I connect it to what they talk about in Buddism. And what you sometimes meet in Japan: the concept of ”MA” = emptiness in space and time.

One of these days this MA will be a reality in my life. Not just hovering around in the neurons of my brain. I ought to train myself to step outside, sit down on a stone near the moors and stare myself empty. Establish a space inside me that is not occupied by anything. It is hard work these days. Ideas and associative jumps do happen to me all the time. Getting older does not make it easier. Neither does living in a modern digital environment.

During my walk, I recalled that I may interpret my behaviour as always trying to remain ”on top”. If not directly, so at least mentally. I do not get on top, but I might interpret my tendencies this way. For one thing, I get furious when someone tries to ”be on top of me”. Either by interrupting me or treating me in a top-down manner. From whom did I learn this? Who did always behave as nothing was a fault made by that person?

A third revelation during the walk was that I realized that all my life I have been trying to escape. I collect notes about major and minor faults in my character. I have apologized for their existence through expressing myself conscious of them. I will be ready to demand my share of life when I have taken care of them all. I base today’s statement on the fact that these flaws will remain. Being conscious of them did not do the job. I have plenty of arguments and motivations that they should not stay operative. But they still are. I better face the fact that they will not ever disappear. Be sure of that. I better stop operating in the state of “life comes later when I am ready”. I better start now before life is over. After all my age is 75.

What reality did I observe around me? Not much. Grey even overcast. No sun. Not much wind. Streets dressed in a thin layer of snow from yesterday, about 2-3 inches. Slushy in places where traffic and salt mix. I assure that the stretch of my walk gave me 7000 steps covering 5 km. Hoards of ordinary people hurrying to or from their office. Everything was operating at a non-glamorous level of every day. Same as yesterday. Same tomorrow.

 

(947 words)

Obstacles to finding my voice
Part of being creative is to be courageous. So I have been told. What does that mean to me? In what segment do I need to be courageous? What does limit my ability to think and act in this segment? A first obstacle was that I did not have shielded space inside me to be creative in. Through writing repeatedly, I established that space. In this space I allow myself to do things I know nothing about. An act of courage is to avoid filling it with those actions that I already know of. Sometimes my courage disappears into the woods.

The second obstacle is what do I use this shielded space for? Historically, I have used it for making notes of various thoughts and ideas. Mainly in an attempt to regain access to elements that once created joy and a feeling of being rich. Unfortunately I have used the same scene to escape from irritating events and emotions. I did quickly hide those aspects that disturbe my normal function in education, marriage and my profession. I am sad to admit that this way I blinded myself from seeing some early warning signals in my life.

A third obstacle is to actually hear and take in what other humans say, write or act. I tend to quickly shut them out and continue in my own bubble of concepts, thoughts, style, and values. In this aspect being courageous means to stay open, read and hear what others say, cut it loose it from that individual and apply it to me. In other words, take on the role of the other. Or, expressed in a slightly general way, to play along in the position of being a decent author. I have to put the task of attending to myself at a low priority. After all, some humans state that no such self exist. They say you won’t find any self irrespective of how long and precise you search. Confidence in yourself is a real and desirable quality. Going the way over finding yourself is no good. When reaching a self-confidence, you may allow yourself to take on roles. Which in turn is a prerequisite to being a true author!

My fourth obstacle has to do with following my passion and my dreams. Do I feel a passion for being an author? At my present state, this is an impossible question. After all, I cannot feel passionate about something I have no experience of. Neither do I dream of being an author. My dream is to be considered as a man of substance. I conclude I once did feel passion when I started free writing. But, that passion turned out to be a blind one. I learned English but buried my personality deeper into the old groves of self-reflection.

Summing up
To sum up, I switch over to the subject of finding my voice. The answer is that my writing has not helped me to find that voice. Not yet. But, it has narrowed down the area for my search. I feel confident in taking on the role of being an author. At least one of a decent statue. To me being an author means to deeply engage in the mindsets of those characters that will show up in a future story. This means I need to swiftly shift from one mindset to another. From one role to another. In consequence, this means to abandon my intense cramp on to that one role, the role of being myself. That is to quit my style of writing in a self-reflective fashion.

Action
To find my voice, I better letting out whatever voice I have. Irrespective of what I think it is coming from and what odd shapes it may take. If I do not do this, I will have no practice and thus a significant void in my basic knowledge of what it is all about. Therefore any judgments about myself will most likely be in error. Maybe such judgments will always be a disaster?

In my case, I will take on the role of being a decent author. I will do it prior to having proved that I am such a character. I should allow my author to do his thing. That is the things he has an inner urge to do. It does not matter if he understands what he is doing and why. It does not matter what mode of self-control he operates. Nor does his judgments about the quality of what comes out of him. After all, his version of restraints rests on previous inputs. That is they come from other and earlier areas of life. Many humans have experienced that their voices have been held down and efficiently silenced. In our childish attempt to comply we developed self-control. It stays with us as a sort of necessary software in our minds. This software continues to run, days in and days out, deepening that old model of self-control. We act as if this software is necessary for survival. It becomes almost like a part of our identity. It once was the only sensible thing to do in what we interpreted as a hostile environment. Later on, when growing up, this is seldom the case. So we have to re-erect us from self-suppression. Preferably, we should avoid doing it the hard way. Then we might risk becoming egocentric maniacs. We better do it with our version of an intelligent and balanced approach.

One critical thing is to be somewhat particular on what that inner urge is signaling. Some of those signals call for a high level of trust. In those cases following established habits is the thing to do. In other cases, these messages call for doing something more courageous. Then I believe I am approaching the exciting part of my inner urge.

 

(799 words)

What am I passionate about? – I have been passionate about avoiding people who tell me what to do. Second, I like participating in dialogues. Third, I love experiencing that there is someone present behind words I listen to.

That was looking back on my history. But, what am I passionate about today and tomorrow? So in the subtext of the above question: ” What am I passionate about” is a value statement. I disagree with that statement. I doubt that history is useful in defining the personality of any human. I suspect that the best each of us can do is to follow that track forward. I do not subscribe to the attitude above, it is too conservative. In other words, I express me being passionate about change. But who knows, tomorrow I may change my position and go for no change, stability, or even rigidity.

Passionate about writing
I look back at what I write and how. I find I behave as if I were passionate about reflecting on myself and my conduct. I do it all the time. Day in and day out. Am I excited about myself and my performance? It is nothing of the sort. Am I passionate about reaching the consequence of self-reflection? I regard my question as complicated. What are the implications of writing in this style in a short-term or a long-term perspective? What are the effects on my emotions and my way of thinking? At this moment, I am writing myself into feeling mixed up. I do continue to write in a self-reflective style but what have I achieved and what do I believe I will gain?

When writing self-reflectively, I use words to unload a question, an issue or uncertainty from bothering me. This action makes it possible for me to head back to what I was doing. That was managing my education, my marriage, my profession and my practical problems. It has been an advantage to me to do what I thought I should do. I swept disturbing signals under the carpet before I examined them. I cleaned them out, and they disappeared into oblivion. A severe consequence was that I did not notice them early enough.

I believe that me writing in self-reflective style has negative consequences for me. At last in the long run. By writing this way, I unload the issues irritating me into an empty room. A space that is my own. This space becomes choked and too isolated.

Another perspective is that I am passionate about being sure that I know what I write. So far I have been carrying the concept that the object I know best is myself. I have brought this wrapped in a significant cover of furiosity. But at this specific moment, I hesitate. I recall the possibility that what I think about myself may be in severe error.

For example, I do not know these elements of me that may generate a positive sense of passion! All my life I have taught myself of the ways my personality may carry faults, deficits and guilts. I am an expert on this and on being the victim of all these flaws. But when I now put these words on paper something changes. I realise that this is utterly crazy of me to be passionate about finding faults in myself.

What am I passionately in opposition of?
What am I passionately in oppositions of? The first thing that pops up is anger. I get angry when I am exposed to individuals continuing to use power language on me. That goes for both females or males.

I am disappointed in not having developed any level of street smartness. I engaged in doing scientific research in an academic environment. But at the end, there was no human present to receive my result. Now I know better. There needs to be a human out there that want me to do what I do. I am fed up working towards a system that never shows up and never shows gratefulness.

I have been passionate about those of my feelings that I call anxiety. My attitude changes when writing this. I suspect I should stop calling them anxiety and stop trying to avoid those feelings. After all, I may as well interpret them differently. They may show that I have primary contact with freedom. I have a connection with the emotions involved in being alive and making my decisions!

Finally, there is sorrow and not being notably passionate. There is sorrow over not having found my call yet. Not having seen that thing in what to engage 100%. I suspect I am in charge of a decent chunk of power and capacities but where are my joy and satisfaction. Or am I in complete error on this point?

(186 word)

(Who inspires me and what does this tell about me)

Are there any individual around me by which I feel inspired? Let us see. Our neighbors close to our summerhouse? They are artists: a well-known painter and a likewise famous author. I am close to them socially, but I know nothing about them as artists. I take part in various groups. Groups of amateur painters, poetry writers, fiction writers, and speaking in the dialogue format. Does anyone of these individuals inspire me? Does any of my brothers inspire me? Schoolmates? Mates at the University? M workplace? Well, to be honest, I can not lift anyone up front and forward him or her as inspiration.

What does this say about me? That I have high thoughts about my superiority? Not a chance. If I have high beliefs about my self, I must have pushed them deep down into my unconscious. Or does it say something about me not daring to even check if I am good at anything? That was a thought I have to rest on for a while.