Drafts of ante noctem (2)

I've realized that i dont remember since when I havent written something in English. In fact, once upon a time i started this bloody blog thing to write in English. Then what happened? 'Cause of my "kousozluk" habit, i forgot my fundamental purpose.

Oddly enough, it seems to me that i wont be able to express my feelings, my opinions properly if write in Eng. I still have some concerns about seeing myself as an expert in that language. As if, it wasnt me who wrote an anology including Milton's "Paradise Lost", Shakespeare's "Hamlet", and Geothe's "Faust", and succeeded to get the highest mark, when only a 2th grade student at university.

Actually it's because, the matters i mostly write about are completely free from my own life and my inner world. They're more social than being individual. I cannot get what kind of a creature i'm, who feels speaking of her own feelings, her heart's secret corners seems insulting! That's why i like writing very much. It gives me the strenght to yell out freely, especially about my own self!

Of course i've been just deceiving myself about that. I even afraid to write as much as i speak. What makes me feel that? Is anyone who can answer my question? I think that would only be Sigmund Freud, unfortunately he's not alive. He would probably turn me back to my childhood and search for the source of my weakness, the "ambarrasment of seeming flabby" weakness, which is a god damn shit for my perfect character! ahahaha... Ok, not perfect maybe but it's close to perfect :P

The most courageous thing i've ever done was to write that "huge letter" which's a complete confession of deep labyrints in my heart. (I mentioned that letter obscurely in "this title") Morover, i went forward and gave those confession letter to the "one" i wrote, i dedicate. Then i felt so brave, because that letter comprises many feelings in it. But it was so relieving. All of the secrets i kept to myself are not secrets anymore. Now they're known by two people, at least i hope so. Actually it doesnt matter, i dont care, i dont feel any piece of regret. I dont need to...

But, do you know what? I still cant talk about the things i wrote in that letter. There are many things that i cant express by talking. But i know i can write about them. Alas! Long live the strengt of wrtinig! Those ancient people were right, who said, "verba volant scripta manent". Now i think, if i try to speak about the things written in that letter, i wouldnt be able to express as tenths of them, and it may have been forgotten. But now, it's there, with all it's body and soul.

Oh holy shit! It was supposed be a short writing, but i've been engrossed in again. Whatever, what if i called it as draft of ante noctem, i'll sleep right after i post it. But i dont know how i'll stop listenning Judas Priest. It's been too long since i last listened it. But now i feel that i've been really unfair to it.

Also, before i go to bed, i wish to indicate that, i condemn March to be such cold and amazingly snowy!

Good night everyone...