I should learn to write abstract stuff again.

Writing the last bit felt like I'm wasting time I could spend procrastinating. (as I was too knackered to study) But later it dawned on me how much I enjoyed it. How much it cleared my mind. 

I always imagine people experience similar feeling when they paint. Painters mostly.

[in the previous prispevek] There's a large concept of multiple possibilities to develop it into a not-a-small sci-fy bit. Which was well enjoyable to wind about my linguistic abilities and not to bore my self too much.

I reminded me of some of the bits i wrote in here well in the past. Some that I considered good writing. And reminded me of how much I used to enjoy writing.

It was in my native language, it was much easier to write much better.

And I'm afraid it wouldn't be any more as I must have lost some of my eloquence through not speaking it, not writing it and not thinking in it. Nothing I wouldn't regain promptly once returned, I'm sure, but not available right now.

So, maybe if I set up a habit of writing shorts bits as the one bellow. Once a week or so. As with the previous one, I'd start with a first sentence that comes into my mind and evokes an emotion, and develop it in to something that won't be too long, too conclusive or dull in any other way.

And maybe with time I'll feel like that I can write again, and will feel more comfortable doing so. And again by another insignificant bit feel more like I'm being my self and living my life.

maybe maybe

Eight minutes it takes to come to ...

There's a tingling sense of deep cold dissipated with a softly whispered spell,
... approximately seventy four rose thorns of ice ...
... thaw into nonexistence ...
No messengers come, expectation of puzzling source stings unfulfilled,
... oppressing question defying articulation,
weighs down the buzz of wakening,
and eventually turns into sense of earth below ...
Breath scared off by the sudden attention it receives,
darkness only just realised reseeds and first glimpse of a thought enters mind, followed by a flood.
... where, why, feels different than it should ...
... must not wake up. must wait for the memory to catch up ...
... 'please settle down, it's just panic nothing else'
... who's panic
Eventually reason prevails over fear and you open your eyes.

You see a circle of light at about an arms length above you. You aren't sure whether it's changing colour or just becoming brighter.

From there on everyone's experience differs.

You have been revived from stasis and you know that it will take a while to come back to your selves. Meanwhile there's a great unknown around and no way back to the time when you slept. You've been born again to live out another purpose.
You're light years away from your home and you have slept through the rest of lives of everyone you left behind.
... Take with you an item of clothing you only wore at home, you'll find that it's the only home you'll need ...

Some feel melancholic, some are scared and some sad. Non's ever reported to have felt happy.
Every journey's end feels should deserve a certain sense of content.
This one doesn't. Or maybe just haven't yet.
No one has yet travelled it more then three times as it's considered unethical and possibly dangerous.

They call them selves the free.
you travel once you shed your lineage.
you travel two times you shed your place as you lose your chance to ever go back.
you travel three times you have lost all regret.
Third time most lose parts of their memory too. They'd never say they forgot, they say they only just stopped remembering what they didn't need to.

'Aliens From Earth' were the headlines
But that was long ago.

I have this sense of a half life that I don't think will ever go.
This I described as one of things I felt about living abroad. It was about six months in to my relocation and I was talking to a friend of mine to whom my home country had then been home abroad for a couple of years.
He agreed to it as relatable. I think where I matched his years in was in my ability of his language that he can't say to have of mine.

I never thought of this since, until today.
I don't have that sense any more.
But I don't have a sense of really living either.

It's all been a game. My life in London. A sabbatical of a sort I took from social pressures of my then life. A life that I can't imagine going back to.
I'm certain it didn't feel like it then, but thinking of it now I realise it was a kind of a half life too. (I think one day I'm going to refer to that period of my life as The Big Wait of 013 to 017)

I had this concept of society being sort of a fish tank. About how one didn't really have to do much as all paths were paved.
About how trying hard was a mere character trade that only occurred in some but didn't really have much effect on anything.
And dreams were dreams and reality was reality, never to be mixed in order to prevent harm.
Illusion on the other hand was a thing sought for by all.
Literally.
People would say 'don't take away his illusions.' and when sad or disgruntled with lost winnings on something I never really tried hard for I'd say 'this must be what loosing illusions feels like'.
I suppose I was a creation of my generation and age.
I suggest not a device or forethought! Only things considered good were passed on. Among them respect for the old as they were the last to see the world in colour.
Let's waste our time the nicest way, so that one day we can say that we did all the things an old person might be happy to have had done when they were young.

It's good I left the old place. There was always this feeling that something really important was missing. A generation of people who grew up in a despised prison that they learned to miss as it had one day gone to be replaced with something they always wished for but when it came true it didn't speak their languages and had already been going for a while without them anyway. Adults, I called them (dospěláci). I used to think I would be one of them now, but I'm not. None of the people that became adults since are like them. Some do resemble them a bit, but it's not really working for them.
This is not me trashing the generation of my wonderful parents. They probably were happier young than my generation are anyway. All I'm saying is that living in my world in the way their world was best lived is just so ... not living.

And so here I am.
Feeling like at an end of a holiday. Having a recollection of the sense of half life I had when I came over away.
Why I wrote earlier that as I didn't feel like that any more and that I didn't feel like being alive either was because I indeed haven't been living much lately.
Most of my spare time these days I spend in books and study, loving every second of it.
See, not drinking doesn't lend the justifying hand, booze would, keeping me hanging out where I felt uncomfortable as if only because I didn't have anything better to do anyway.
Being sober has so far brought very much out the introverted me that I used to shun as not being cool enough or simply too prudish to be let among people that didn't know me.
Whether it's because I've been sober, or because I've had strong enough purpose to my life to choose more wisely what to occupy my time with or whether it's spring stirring me up I don't know, but I've been very honest with my self lately. And it didn't lead to the usual flight to illusional realms of grandeur but to unexpected consolation and rather constructive lines of thought.

The fact is that I don't have in my life the things I'd like. This is partly to change when I start flying. And when that's started and relatively well off the shore, I'll rearrange other parts of my life to feel more like I'm living my life as well.

Committing to a particular school and with it having to lay with all my weight into the support infrastructure of my quarters and my job I suddenly have a tendency to be a way more critical of both. What was more than a great holiday occupation seems to glisten less when considered for the career to fuel my ambition with.
It's not a holiday any more and it will now matter how much stability I can muster.
It's no more to be that period of my life when I had a break from the future.
No more half life.
Now all the things I do determine who I em and who I em determines how far I'll be able to go.
And in this respect I'm afraid that my current employment is less then satisfactory. Stable perhaps. Professional growth there in however, seems less and less attainable.
This, I'm still hoping, might prove just a whim of the spring's fickle temper. But at the same time I wouldn't like to wait out the inevitable again instead of moving the fuk out as a good soldier should. 

Sadly enough, brexit's expected to have a say to my near future as well. So, let's not shuffle the deck before we are clear of that bullshit.

I want to tell you more. And there's more to say too. And it all is good too.
But I need to go to bed as I go to work tomorrow. And I haven't been too depressive lately to write often enough. So I probably won't. But
One of the things I won't elaborate on as much as I wanted to is that I don't think it might be that hot with me being bipolar and that deep lows are inevitable. I argue, that it might just be that occasionally I get sad because I don't have anything to be happy about. But this might just be a frugal refute of my currently ongoing high. Again; I won't elaborate, but it is a fruitful thought indeed and it might be wise to set up a support frame of beacons of hope around the expected path of mine to avoid another such void.

I really going now. good night