I discovered Bukowski on 2015, when my life was revolved around poetries. A bit late, I must say, since Bukowski passed away on 1994; the year when I wasn't even born yet. Bukowski once said; if you have the ability to love, love yourself first. That words had haunted me since the first time I put my eyes to read it, when I was still writing on hellozhifa.com, so yeah circa 2015-2016.
Bukowski was not unique, I guess, hell, I don't even think he'd like to be called that way. Bukowski was different. He wrote don't try on his tombstone, he was an original. What I really admired from him was his ability to keep on doing things without really trying and his honesty. My admiration for Bukowski was awaken by Mark Manson on his book, chapter one, where he mentioned Bukowski, from the short biography Manson provided I went on, looked for more.
Bukowski was honest with himself. Painstakingly honest, I would say. He admitted his truth for the worst parts of himself. I don't think that most people can do that, including I. Upon the publication of his first book, he wrote that the book was dedicated to nobody. I still haven't get a grip on Post Office yet and since I respect this person so much, I do not want to read his work in a free PDF shared online, I want the real deal, the book; if I can, the first copy (its hard, I know, but I'm still looking). With that dedication for a book, I think Bukowski was implying that he did not wrote for people. He wrote for himself. Or maybe, he wrote for the sake of writing. Such a cool guy. Mind you that that book was published when Bukowski was 50 years old, yet he kept on writing.
I'm going to be like Bukowski, you know, like the part of him that write for the sake of writing, not because everyone else thought its good or cool to write, not for other people's expectations or judgments, not for the people who hates me, not for the readers; for those people, I will not try. And if I have to try, I'll try whatever it is I want to try for me.
“Sometimes when everything seems at its worst when all conspires and gnaws and the hours, days, weeks years seem wasted— stretched there upon my bed in the dark looking upward at the ceiling I get what many will consider an obnoxious thought: it’s still nice to be Bukowski.”