Of course I want to keep writing prose. By simply, to be taken care of. But I'm afraid, I can't do a longer one, write more coherent prose. The attempt, 20 Unfortunately, writing a coherent prose text for years practically killed me. I have tried, the problem in a chapter of “Belief” to thematize yourself: the problem, never finishing a job at the end of the day. Never having the end of work in sight. Added to this was the ever increasing certainty, that this work can never be canceled by me, that I have achieved that with it, what i wanted first, then no longer wanted: me the evaluation u. thus withdraw from the market. The day came, that I wondered about: what is the difference, whether I type virtually or with the keyboard? What is the difference, whether really writing or just potentially? The writing and discarding of mountains of paper over decades. If only I had at least kept these mountains! I once thought. If at least I still had the printed pages of paper! Then I could put her next to my bed, turmhoch, and maybe sleep more comfortably. So poor, I am sad and lonely now, that I wish for a mountain of printed ink by my bed! Failure is the much bigger part of my success. That is why my physical and soon also financial as well as my emotional let alone mental economic situation is unbalanced. It is, as if I had to squeeze everything out of myself, to keep me alive. I never thought, that nothing really ever comes back (out of whichever reasons). I thought, that I am with the, what I wanted to do: living a kind of art of living with writing in my life, I would draw people to me, find a community niche, because I found, that I am something very human, Do something down to earth. The opposite was the case. I catapulted myself onto the moon. Degenerate. Of course I write, to distract me. I would never have written, when i a: would have been healthy, physically, and b: gel…..but I have to, human, don't repeat over and over.(or when, how so? I am forced to, to repeat that over and over again?!) I would never have gotten lost in selfishness, if I had lived in a community, where you talk about the most important things and feelings in life every day, practical life, just, consisting of a non-alienated work and a lot of relaxation. Deal with, yourself, to the Ritual. Not to get any further, but to maintain the aesthetics. My job, that of the temporary worker or saleswoman was not enough for me, so as not to miss such a community. Then I was too sick for anything, but I couldn't get out of the prose any more. Starting in an unfamiliar place in prose and never having a plan, is almost insane. No idea of causality. Because I can't think. I can really only make one sentence and look, how the second will be. Prose writing with a short-term memory, this over 20 Pages is like a blindfolded obstacle course. You keep forgetting, what one wrote, destroy everything, starts all over again. What is left is always too little, is always stingy. Stingy with the heart, in search of the filtered essence. But this essence is nowhere really to be pinpointed. I'm squeezed out like a social worker after the fifth burnout. I do not have any strength any more, the prose writing stole the mark from me, i was never finished, I wasn't finished a day, my mind had to keep working every night, just, because I had no overview of 100 Pages written by me. 100pages; that's a lot of sentences. But there are too, in the context of prose, empty sentences. The content does not emerge from the sentences, in prose, just from the structure. And I hate that. That broke me as well, like everything else. I thought, that I am with work, which I consider performance and fun at the same time, clean up my social situation. Publishers don't even justify their refusals. I did something, that is not just pointless, but also arbitrarily. I wish, I could escape into a children's book. Zb.in Pippi. And there, behind a counter, they sell huge rubber lollies and sugar snakes to happy children, who play in the dirt all day long.
title: Quran training.
(26.3.2021)