When I first read the Tractatus I was about 12. I’m not quite sure. A little thin red book I found in my father’s library. Suhrkamp. In German, obviously. It looked so pretty. When I started reading it, the world stopped turning. It became my bible. I still know many paragraphs by heart and I have applied it’s last sentence (proposition 7) to my life until I started writing this blog. I used to dream about visiting his grave in Cambridge. I even exchanged letters with a teacher at Trinity College. Bertie went there too. I have always had high hopes and ambitions (Ludwig wrote in English too and that gives me hope.) Because some things must be spoken. Words matter, things matter, however clumsy you might seem when you try to express them. People yearn for definitions, images and words, they wear quotes on t-shirts, repost famous sentences without knowing their context or source, as long as they resonate inside them. If Ludwig were alive today he would be King of Twitter. And he is still one of my biggest idols. Even if he remains controversial.
I only started tweeting regularly two months ago or so. I switched channels. Now I tweet every day because I need a place for my words. I love words so very much. I love the poems my Indian friend sends me, I love the romance and the passion they carry. I still write in my notebooks but I also need my words to be read and I need others to react to them. I’m so anxious that I wake up at 5AM, I’m not even able to draw, all I do is overthink and cry, tweet and read tweets, read messages from people all around the world, then cry again. Try to sleep to forget and dream about hashtags. I still send instructions to myself and I still hesitate which language to use, even on Twitter. Or which pseudonym to use for my texts. If only I could go back home, to my house, my tree, my beloved city. I miss them so much. I miss everything I’ve lost so terribly much it hurts. Now I feel all I have are avis and words, my tocaya and writers from overseas who send me beautiful texts by private message or e-mail, making me cry. Or men who want to talk to me, men I will never meet but secretly wished that I could. Because as I already said, everyone is real to me, on the Internet or elsewhere. And I see that so many of us suffer in different shades of pain. And want their anxiety to stop for Christmas. I’m overflowing with emotion and feel engulfed by my endless sadness. I know there are many reading me, from all over the world. I see you in the stats.
Nothing means more to me than touching people with my words and art.
Denn um dem Denken eine Grenze zu ziehen, müßten wir beide Seiten dieser Grenze denken können.Ludwig Wittgenstein, ‘Tractatus logico-philosophicus’