Category: Rant

This is the bomblike feeling of having cared for someone who did not care for me at all. This is me having trusted someone who did not believe me when I told them a friend of theirs had wronged me. This is the sudden certainty that time would never change that unrequited trust in spite of recurring conversation. In spite of supposed recurring remembrance. I thought I had the past on my side with all these memories as credentials, but recurrence does not turn the old into new. I didn’t know it —or I didn’t want to know it—, but I was just a faint apparition, a harmless ghost climbing the same flight of stairs night after night.

Rage must be understood in order to be conquered. I need to understand my rage in order to conquer it. No one else can. Or who knows. My father might. He seems to understand it, he seems to recognize an old foolish self of his reflected on me and lets it come and go.

Rage gives me this enormous strength that I don’t want to use, but which I end up doing because it climbs up to my head like boiling milk overflowing. And it’s useless, I know. It’s this useless urge to scream and grab lapels and push away. To bring order out of chaos, with chaos. To bring reason through a completely unreasonable action. To run away and find out later that I’ve scraped my hands and arms in flight. Oh, adrenaline, you remorseless anaesthesia. A narrow escape from my own earthquake.

Who am I when I explode like that? What is the techtonic movement that summons the volcano within? Is there anything that could prevent this from happening again? There must be something bothering me deep inside, but I can’t seem to grasp it just yet. Now I’m just tired and disbelieving of my own self. What the hell is stuck inside here? What is it that I need to vent?

I stopped writing poetry. I don’t know why. All these words used to flow into my head, all these images that sounded so well. But not anymore. Perhaps it’s lack of practice. It’s not as if it were something mystical bestowed upon me by some divine entity which has now forsaken me. No, it’s not at all like that. You have to write if you want to write. And it was a good practice, poetry. It was beautiful. I should take it up again. Of course today is neither August 31st nor September the 2nd, but I’m travelling to the past to stop myself from being so stupid. Here’s Olavia from the future telling you, you have time! Use it. Do all the things you want to do. Don’t wait. Write. Draw. Sing. Read. Do. Do. Do.

Collective nouns in English are so poetic, they almost sound unreal. Here’s a list of my favorites:

an ugly of walruses
an escargatoire of snails
a flotilla of swordfish
a rhumba of rattlesnakes
a lamentation of swans
a stubbornness of rhinoceroses
an implausibility of gnus
a blessing of unicorns
a shiver of sharks
a party of rainbow fish
a misbelief of painters