And so, the collection of unpublished poetry from one famous singer, whom I really like, has finally reached me. In fact, I was even at her concert recently. Now, as I read these poems, it becomes clear to me that the struggles I face, she faces too. She is successful, popular, and rich—everything I would like to be but always feel too embarrassed to admit. As I read about the most intimate parts of her life and personality, I become calm, because, look, even she, so successful, struggles just like I do. She doesn’t finish projects, she’s a genius yet lazy, attractive and unhappy. Emotional and tired, feeling everything just like me now. Now, I have to write a review about these poems, I have to pick something, but I don’t even know where to start.

It’s easier for me now, everything feels somehow easier. Because she has the same problems, she faces the same moral struggles, she writes to herself, just like I do. And look, now someone has read this. I wonder if anyone will ever read this. Now I realise I should’ve read fiction and Jon Fosse earlier. Maybe I would’ve written more freely and often. Who knows, maybe it’s good this is happening right now. This is already becoming my story, and this has nothing to do with the singer anymore. The singer was just someone who opened the door to this story, but this isn’t a fantasy, this is my reality. I still don’t understand how this reality of mine is developing, but I know it’s heading somewhere. Like a ship that was just floating aimlessly in the vast, endless ocean, but now, finally, it’s turning and heading somewhere, even though I still can’t see land.

I want to write more often, I think it’s important. I see many things, and sometimes I wish my eyes were a camera recording my life, all those bizarre moments, people, situations. All of it somehow has to be told, it has to be recorded. Many don’t live this life. I often think my life is boring, that I’m boring. Like I’m some woman without hobbies, without anything, who can only lie down and scroll through her crappy phone, and that’s how her days pass. But actually, I know I’m not that woman. I think so much that sometimes, I can’t even catch my own thoughts. They are so fast that sometimes I feel like a mute observer of my own thoughts, which move so quickly in some magnetic field that all I can do is watch them and enjoy the spectacular visual of that rushing energy. Energy, which often leads nowhere. I am to blame for that, I don’t know how to channel it. Even now, as I write this, my fingers hurt because they can’t keep up with the speed of my thoughts. I want to write everything down, making sure not miss anything. I can’t catch up, maybe I should give up. My fingers really hurt. I’ll return to the singer, her poetry. I want to read her poems aloud in my apartment again, and then allow myself to cry out loud because some remind me of that very special person to me. The person I can’t forget, who refuses to leave my mind. Not just my mind, but my heart. And so, in a totally sadistic way, I read those poems aloud and then cry aloud, hoping to channel that sadness I can’t get rid of. But it seems I can’t channel much at all. Well, I should think about that.