Wednesday. Me.



I have spent a lot of time toiling over the first line in what is often considered Gombrowicz’s finest work. Although I have only made my way through the first few pages of his “Diary” I already fine myself obsessing over each new day. As a native of Poland during the rise of the Second World War, Gombrowicz was face to face with some of history’s most dramatic moments. I must be honest in this moment and say that I do fear that I may never get to have such experiences. Not that I wish for war or an environment that reflected the streets of 1940’s Europe, a request of that nature would deem me sick and cruel. But writings that came out of times of deep struggle are often unmatched, and as a writer I cannot lie and say that that isn’t appetizing.

I have decided, and hopefully will stick with the idea, to follow in the footsteps of Gombrowicz and document my daily life. Although my prowess is nothing like that of the great Polish writer I find that these documents will prove something. Not that I ever intend to release them as a publication, as they will better serve as a means of self-reflection. As a writer I find myself often struggling with words. These moments of stagnation can last hours or they can last weeks, and the judgements against myself become more intense. It is possible that something more will come out of these journals, but for now they will serve as nothing more than a tool of reassurance.

Thank you Gombrowicz, for providing a means of therapy even fifty years after your death.

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