Writing is a challenge for someone who never received an education, knows no grammar, and only writes from instinct. In fact, my brain is so severely screwed up that I do everything purely from instinct. I struggle living with multiple psychological issues that include complex PTSD (multiple trauma), autism (Aspergers), ADHD, and living in almost constant (learnt) fear due to an exceptionally overactive survival response (brain's Amygdala). Although to be honest, I struggle with verbal communication just as much, if slightly differently. The result has been a horrifically lonely life of disaster after disaster. I'm primarily a fine arts artist who discovered he also enjoyed playing with written words. And many years ago won a writer's grant from the Berlin city literature department for a novel I never published as I once again lost faith in my instinctual writing and suffered deep shame. For a short while, I turned these words into alternative theatre pieces and also performed in these. I also gave readings at small venues around Berlin before my courage eventually disappeared into nothingness, as did my writing attempts. However, after a long break, I suddenly found the desire to play with words again. Purely instinctively, of course I have teetered on the sharp edge of the paradox all my life. The duality of life pounded into me very early on. So I, too, became torn in two. Neither the one nor the other. Just a chaotic confusion of thoughts and emotions, yet utterly fascinated by the wonders of life that were like the forbidden fruit hanging from the tree, forever exasperatingly just out of reach. The more seeds of life I saw growing in the world, the greater my hunger grew. Yet, I could never quite reach these, no matter how hard I stretched. On ships, I travelled storm-tossed seas of wonder, marvelled at the beauty of dusty conflict-torn nature reserves of Africa, drove heavily laden trucks in convoys that inched up steep mountains of Europe, helped damaged children find freedom, turned dreams of Meccano sets into real machines, and watched with longing couples walking with hands joined in the glory of a setting sun. No matter how hard I stretched, the fruit of life remained just out of reach. Yet, the depth of fascination grew in a heart filled with lonely sadness and the beautiful richness of a love for life I did not know how to live. Those instinctive words flow from these and other life experiences (and suffering).
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