29.04.2025 - Flying to Norway. Just watched Tick, tick... boom!
What an amazing movie. It made me feel inspired again—to achieve something great in art, to write a powerful novel, to strive for the best. To entertain. To impress.
I’m sitting in the first row of the plane, my feet up on the seat, no one beside me. Eminem’s Mockingbird instrumental in my ears.
This movie stirred something in me—not that I’ve needed a movie for that lately, but still.
I’m sitting in the first row of the plane, my feet up on the seat, no one beside me. Eminem’s Mockingbird instrumental in my ears.
This movie stirred something in me—not that I’ve needed a movie for that lately, but still.
Originality. Distrupting the established norms. Trailblazing. Going where no one has gone before. I feel such a strong desire to reach higher than I ever have. To affect people more deeply than I’ve ever dared. To influence. Provoke. Dream big—no, dream huge.
Everything feels possible, as I look out over the wide, flat landscape of some European country, now swallowed by darkness, small islands of light scattered along riverbeds and lakes.
Everything feels possible, as I look out over the wide, flat landscape of some European country, now swallowed by darkness, small islands of light scattered along riverbeds and lakes.
The horizon is on fire. Deep red, orange, and bright yellow melt into the brightest blue, fading slowly into black—but not yet.
There’s the moon! A sliver of chalk-white light lit by the setting sun. Its perfect circle completely visible against the cobalt background. And just above it to the left—an impossibly bright star, motionless. I swear they’re connected by an invisible thread pulled taut.
There’s the moon! A sliver of chalk-white light lit by the setting sun. Its perfect circle completely visible against the cobalt background. And just above it to the left—an impossibly bright star, motionless. I swear they’re connected by an invisible thread pulled taut.
The airplane keeps chasing the vanishing light, as if it refuses to surrender the day. But we’re not flying fast enough to catch it. The sky darkens as quickly as I can write, words pouring out of me like the insistent rhythm of the song in my head.
“Move forward and be happy,” the Indian guru said. I feel halfway there. Definitely moving forward. A lingering joy tickles my insides, wanting me to laugh out loud and declare the long winter of sorrow over. To declare that my heartbreak is no more. To declare victory—and no longer defeat.
“Move forward and be happy,” the Indian guru said. I feel halfway there. Definitely moving forward. A lingering joy tickles my insides, wanting me to laugh out loud and declare the long winter of sorrow over. To declare that my heartbreak is no more. To declare victory—and no longer defeat.
Yes, she is gone.
Yes, she found someone else.
Yes, these months have been brutal.
Yes, she found someone else.
Yes, these months have been brutal.
But I made it through the blindness and pain, inching forward with eyes shut, hands fumbling through a dim hallway, where emotions crept out like mocking ghosts in a haunted house.
I found the way out in the end. The echoing laughter just a faint memory. The final door of humiliation shut behind me, my eyes squinting at the unexpected bright light on the other side.
A gathering of family and friends waits with open arms on a field of grass. She’s nowhere to be seen—except in the dusty corners of my mind, where untamed flames reenact her most sensual moves. But I see now: it’s all just a show.
I found the way out in the end. The echoing laughter just a faint memory. The final door of humiliation shut behind me, my eyes squinting at the unexpected bright light on the other side.
A gathering of family and friends waits with open arms on a field of grass. She’s nowhere to be seen—except in the dusty corners of my mind, where untamed flames reenact her most sensual moves. But I see now: it’s all just a show.
She never existed. That’s what I tell anyone willing to listen. She was a figment of my imagination. A beautiful illusion of a madman. A character in the story I’d been writing for too long.
A decade of escape and artistic pursuit—my whole forties gone up in smoke, it seemed—as I burned the final pages of an unfinished manuscript about our unfulfilled life.
Look, Mum. I’m moving on.
A decade of escape and artistic pursuit—my whole forties gone up in smoke, it seemed—as I burned the final pages of an unfinished manuscript about our unfulfilled life.
Look, Mum. I’m moving on.
Below me, the spiderweb of a nightlit city stretches along the oval window, the fields and forests trailing behind like a giant conveyor belt, mimicking the earth’s movement as we near the continent’s northern shore.
I’m edging forward—with pride, and some joy. The shame of another failed marriage fading, like the colors of a sun that moved on long ago. A sun that does not linger in self-pity or self-doubt—because it has seen it all, and knows life is too short to waste.
I look out the window thinking: I still have so much to learn—about the heart, and the bigger picture of it all.
I’m edging forward—with pride, and some joy. The shame of another failed marriage fading, like the colors of a sun that moved on long ago. A sun that does not linger in self-pity or self-doubt—because it has seen it all, and knows life is too short to waste.
I look out the window thinking: I still have so much to learn—about the heart, and the bigger picture of it all.
Maybe I should stop taking everything so seriously. Maybe I should laugh more.
But then I think of Jonathan Larson—the real-life composer the film is based on—and I’m pulled back into the burning ambition for originality. Not fame for fame’s sake, but to show the world things can be done differently.
There’s still room for surprise—in the subtle cracks of conformity.
But then I think of Jonathan Larson—the real-life composer the film is based on—and I’m pulled back into the burning ambition for originality. Not fame for fame’s sake, but to show the world things can be done differently.
There’s still room for surprise—in the subtle cracks of conformity.
He died at 35 of a sudden aneurysm, just before his final success.
I’ll be 50 in less than a year. And artistically, I’ve got nothing to show for it.
But it’s not too late.
Or I’ll die trying.
I’ll be 50 in less than a year. And artistically, I’ve got nothing to show for it.
But it’s not too late.
Or I’ll die trying.
