Where is the love?

Do you know this kind of love that makes you drive yourself to the limits? To neglect the physical symptoms of exhaustion, to deny your needs in favour of the object of your affection. That makes you stay awake at night, to teach your body not to experience hunger, because there other essential ways you should be spending time than having a snack. A love that stops your libido from having any kind of influence over your actions, because your sex life is no longer of importance.

I know it. I used to.

Despite the first though coming into one’s mind I don’t mean pedestrian parenthood. (Even though that’s the closet I plan to getting to that area in my life.)

I mean creating a great piece of art. Novel, painting, screenplay, symphony, film, sculpture or heavy metal album.

But to be in love with what you’re creating and letting yourself get overpowered, enslaved by your creation means believing in it’s power. That it is unique, brilliant and history of art/music/world is lacking exactly that piece.

I grew up a little in that sad, Socratian kind of way – I know that I know nothing, and no matter how Jon Snow it makes me I miss the certainty. Long time ago I would read biographies of 27 Club members and desperately seek similarities to my own life. (Oh, Janis Joplin was raised religious? She’s just like me!) Damn, I even chose my uni because of an exchange program with UCLA, where Morrison studied film.

Coming to UK I was so sure of my English, being top of my class, passing IELTS higher than expected, after dancing on the bar till 3 am and dragging the bar owner to my hotel room, getting some decent head and kicking him out at 6, because I actually came to Cracow to take an English exam.

As it turned out no one in my Polish classrooms taught English with Middle Eastern accent, and that would come in handy when struggling to buy a ticket to New Malden.

I’ve chosen filmmaking degree, because it’s practical. How could I expect that writing skills do not depend on a language you write in? That if you like and know words it doesn’t really matter how much you know, it’s all about how you feel your sentences should look like. How your truths (this blog) and lies (my fiction pieces) should sound like.

This summer I had a choice to make – finish my Filmmaking degree or start Creative writing from the scratch. And for the first time in my life I’ve done something that my parents came up with – stayed.

During the review of the pre-grad films I realised that I hate every piece I contributed, to apart form one post-apocalyptic short.

I miss the feeling of being unique. There are plenty of talented people in my year, but I’m just not one of them. And it’s the most peculiar feeling, something I’ve never experienced before – my skills, therefore my performance is not only not the best. I’m below average there.  I’ve been working my ass of in the area I do not shine and gives very little satisfaction.

My teenage self, currently chocking on schedules and budgets still hopes I grow up to be a persona to go down in history (not only on men) as someone special.

Like Jim Morrison, to leave the film school and achieve something spectacular. Not necessary  a dive into a hole in the middle of  Père Lachaise at the age of 27.

Cheers from Budapest airport bar serving really inspiring wine.