Apart from some uni work, this is the first story i wrote in English. It is a very simple story, cause i tried to be more in command of all i could present in this language, so i avoided the long paragraphs and forking paths of words i usually have.
I got some feedback on this, being that (predictably) the english is not that good for a literary piece, cause it seems foreign anyway. That said, it seems likely that i will manage to get accepted for a book project by a relatively large local house, so i guess some of the works can be translated by actual English people who are professional translators...
For the time being, though, if you feel like it you can comment on the following attempt:
In reality
The doctor said that I am making real progress. I tried to not be so self-defeatist and keep the view that his smiles were forced or awkward, even more than my own... He said that it is obviously positive to see how much weight I had lost, which is never an easy achievement when one is in deep depression.
We parted and are to meet again in a few days, since a week already passed.
I did try, in this week, to make use of his statements, uttered in a voice which was not really immediately discernible as extending some pretense. I think he believes I am getting better. I did lose the weight, and now look like I used to so many years ago. Sometimes complete strangers smile when I speak to them, regardless of what insignificance I had sounded about, almost in a whisper.
To them, it seems, I am getting better as well. Some who saw me for the first time might even think I am just fine. Maybe I appeared a bit too introverted, or silent, or immobile, or positioned my body as if I was not a man but a child, or some woman who was forgetting where she was. But I suspect that is all in my head, and the doctor is right in regards to that.
But I cannot arrive to the same view when I think of his equally conclusive tone, about my fear for leaving my house. He always asks the same thing: well, you did leave it once more so as to get to this office, didn't you?. Yes, I did, I always reply. But this is not all. It is mostly like asking a soldier to quit claiming that about the barricaded earth where artillery fractured what seemed like everything which was, as if invisible hands tore out massive trees, along with the insect-like humans moving hopelessly about. He asks that I should not be of the view there was a hell, just because I left that behind several roads ago...
Then again, to his defense- as if I am meaning to see him as a shield I am carrying and wish his own value to be strong for my own good- he has only a sporadic drop from the sky to examine, and I am more wrong than him when I expect his eyes to glow with the realization that in my world everything has already drowned below some ancient cataclysm. And now, when I just try to pass the final stair and leave this building, I can easily see that, yet again, despite the doctor's smile from his chair, there is only horror to be met with, when one is sunk beneath the fine cloth of puppetry waved by the infinite arms of what crawls about, in reality.
I got some feedback on this, being that (predictably) the english is not that good for a literary piece, cause it seems foreign anyway. That said, it seems likely that i will manage to get accepted for a book project by a relatively large local house, so i guess some of the works can be translated by actual English people who are professional translators...
For the time being, though, if you feel like it you can comment on the following attempt:
In reality
The doctor said that I am making real progress. I tried to not be so self-defeatist and keep the view that his smiles were forced or awkward, even more than my own... He said that it is obviously positive to see how much weight I had lost, which is never an easy achievement when one is in deep depression.
We parted and are to meet again in a few days, since a week already passed.
I did try, in this week, to make use of his statements, uttered in a voice which was not really immediately discernible as extending some pretense. I think he believes I am getting better. I did lose the weight, and now look like I used to so many years ago. Sometimes complete strangers smile when I speak to them, regardless of what insignificance I had sounded about, almost in a whisper.
To them, it seems, I am getting better as well. Some who saw me for the first time might even think I am just fine. Maybe I appeared a bit too introverted, or silent, or immobile, or positioned my body as if I was not a man but a child, or some woman who was forgetting where she was. But I suspect that is all in my head, and the doctor is right in regards to that.
But I cannot arrive to the same view when I think of his equally conclusive tone, about my fear for leaving my house. He always asks the same thing: well, you did leave it once more so as to get to this office, didn't you?. Yes, I did, I always reply. But this is not all. It is mostly like asking a soldier to quit claiming that about the barricaded earth where artillery fractured what seemed like everything which was, as if invisible hands tore out massive trees, along with the insect-like humans moving hopelessly about. He asks that I should not be of the view there was a hell, just because I left that behind several roads ago...
Then again, to his defense- as if I am meaning to see him as a shield I am carrying and wish his own value to be strong for my own good- he has only a sporadic drop from the sky to examine, and I am more wrong than him when I expect his eyes to glow with the realization that in my world everything has already drowned below some ancient cataclysm. And now, when I just try to pass the final stair and leave this building, I can easily see that, yet again, despite the doctor's smile from his chair, there is only horror to be met with, when one is sunk beneath the fine cloth of puppetry waved by the infinite arms of what crawls about, in reality.
