All about shovels, or why do i write gruesome stuff.

Why do I write about such harsh, gruesome things? Deaths, transformation, sorrow, ugliness, suffering, and eventually - recovery and hope.
A few reasons:
 I want to shake people out of their comfort zone and make them think.
 What would I do if I was faced with this choice?

Would I abandon a friend who could not be shown in society? What if I was that friend? Would I forgive those who were too weak-hearted? And - why do we behave as if misfortune was contagious?

Would I invite in a  real nebach? A person who doesn't shower, or somebody with criminal record, or psychiatric illness that makes them an outsider. Suppose I invited them in. How close do I let them be? At what point do I say, enough? Where is my personal border? And yours? I want to take you to it.

What's being impulsive? How much does it run us?

How much do we really owe others, if anything? How much personal space does one need? Or is entitled to?

What's guilt? Real and misplaced.  Regret? Can we really smash a plate and then say "sorry" to it? Does it work?
What do you do when you face something utterly unimaginable? Like an alive mountain? Does it change who you are?
We are all born as such sweet babies. When I see deformity, or addiction , or decrepity, or extreme ugliness,  I ask about the process. between the sweet newborn, and what I'm seeing. How, why? What happened to this person? 
When we face a fork in the road, where one way will add beauty and purity to our soul, and another will likely destroy it, how do we make the choice? What goes through our heads? Could I (or you) commit a murder? A robbery?  How? When? How would I (you) justify it? Why isn't good / right obvious? What is good, anyway?

The point of my writing - all of it, is to explore human strength. I'm fascinated by survivors of all kinds. Strength and weakness, actually. 

And of course - fears. Of all kinds. Especially those that are so far back in our subconscious, that we don't even know we have them. 

People like to "try on" things in their heads, and I just give them an opportunity. If you see yourself in my words, it's not because I put you there, but because words are a mirror. 

What stands behind our actions? Where do they come from? When I lash out in a fit of road rage, and then think, hold on, what was that? The lymbic system taking over the conscious brain? Hormones? Or am I just a bitch?

Why do we do such unexplainable things sometimes? 

I weave in things I see just being outside. A guy is riding a bike, and on his shoulder there is a big spade, he's steering with one hand. Why? What's it for? A joke comes to mind - "What's a friend? It's someone you call when you killed someone, and he says, shall i call the police for you, or you will? And what's a best friend? It's the one who will answer, ok, I'm coming over with the shovel right now". Is he being  somebody's best friend or he's just bringing his grandad a spade? And so with everything. I see, and absorb, and think. People are the most fascinating things on this planet. As my baby's talking toy says, "Let's explore!"