Favourite Artists Feature Part 1 Literature 
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Neutral
AmazedBut time and time went by without any further... urge to write...
Whenever I had a great (writing-)idea , I began to "form" sort of a frame in my mind, and when I had that frame, I just had to decorate it with fragments of that basisc idea and... voila.
Now, when I have a glimpse of an idea, I still initially "see" that frame, but it then - while building up - sort of collapses right in front of my eyes...
And why the hell am I not around on this page anymore
This should be a completely different story, it shouldn't be directly connected to my (non)writing...
But I still think it might be. It just went hand in hand to much.
Even now, when writing this journal, I somehow have my problems to... express myself
I think it could even be connected by the fact that I think too much about a potential audience or readership... about you, about my girlfriend even. Which is of course ridiculous, because I could easily circumvent that hindrance by writing it without posting it
lol... But that doesn't work either... I think when I started to write again, it was only short before I joined here on dA, and I might have become used to having a readership, be it as small as it might be, used to getting feedback, be it by simple liking-testemony, or constructive criticism.
When I'm just thinking about it, it even is an indication that I'm writing in English right now.
But it is great, I enjoyed it all the time. Not even to mention the whole communication around it.
I don't know why it feels so strange, so alien here these days.
It could also be my work that keeps me focussed so much all the time, that I can less and lees think outside of that box, so to say. But that was just alike one year ago, while I was writing tons of poetry, amongst some pieces I like very much.
When I nowadays look on these few poems I'm most proud of, like "Das Brummen" or "Glimmermere", I almost can't believe anymore that it was me, who wrote those.
I feel so uncreative that it hurts, and now comes the real kicker that tops it all: I'm so happy and feel so fullfilled at the moment, that I cannot blame it on any negative surrounding, I cannot even find any figurative scapegoat for that condition. And I really see it as an almost medical condition, like an unknown illness that has befallen me. I'm no longer able to get my mind so much out of this world, that I could create the necessary stable autonomic inner microcosm of my specific idea.
I feel like Peter Pan, suddenly being to old to ever return to Neverland again. With the big difference, that I was aware of that fact all the time, I knew, or felt, it was a matter of focussing, or dis-focussing, sort of. But I never thought I could lose this.
I feel sort of desperate, because I'm not willing to blame it on my right now enormously enjoyable life, though I still sort of feel it might be responsible for all that after all, my urge to write always had something to do with my urge for clarity, to -by writing and constructing- make my own nebulously cloaked feelings visable, vivid, understandable, and in a way - as sort of a sign-post - even enjoyable then.
But now they are understandable to me, I finally know myself, found myself, I just have this strangely comforting feeling of having arrived, of being really satisfied. And that again scares me. Satisfaction is never too good, I just feel a bit lost without being lost. A part of me sort of died from one time to the other, a very unhappy and desperate part of myself. But still a part, and a huge part it was.
To conclude with the almost only thing I wrote since my last poem on here:
When the journey is it's own reward - what do you do, when you've arrived?
Love, Jules
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Friends:
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Der beste deutsche Gedicht Club (und soweit ich weiß der einzige, zumindest der einzige aktive
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Die größte deutsche Community hier auf DA, art-related allerdings hauptsächlich zu Bildern, bzw. digitaler Kunst.
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And a list with my personal favourite own poems
-> [link] 
Alienated
and:
Passionate
