Anna Tiia Sorjonen

I keep repeating the same old boring ideas, or at least that is how it feels like. It feels like a pair of words or a question will play repeat, repeat, repeat in my head – like I would be running in verbal circles, saying the same thing again, again, always stumbling to the same words and expressions.

Yet I write. And I keep writing, as if repeating the same words, ideas, questions somehow would iron out the wrinkles on my forehead, smooth out the tangled up thoughts, as if writing the same thing over and over again would bring clarity.

But it just makes me frustrated. The not being able to express the internal atmosphere, but having to keep repeating something, just this one thing. The being stuck in one thought. The not being able to get further. It all is like I would keep ironing when the wrinkles have already gone, until the fabric starts to burn.

I am starting to feel that I like to ask questions, because I am scared of giving answers.

But all I want is to ask for someone to tell me that it is okay, that it is fine, that it matters that I write, because I no longer see why I keep repeating myself, writing and writing and writing, treading in deep water of a river – no, of an ocean, in the bottom of it. That is the depth I find, the Mariana Trench.