Sadly, that’s not true.
Do you know what keeps me up some nights? It’s the fear that somehow I won’t be able to write anymore. That somehow life’s going to take that away from me. And that I won’t be able to find a way, that life just won’t want to present me with a solution.
Being a writer is what I am. It’s the truest part of me, and for a long time it was the only part of me that still felt alive. It’s funny that we don’t usually think about these things: about what we have and love most.
It’s sad but true that we take things for granted. Whether we continue to chase after dreams we haven’t fulfilled yet, or we’re just doing nothing, we still take things for granted. The most important, the ones that define who we are. Things, people, places, events, we take them all for granted, and we don’t even think about it.
And if we think about it, we often end up living in this strange lethargy, in this “not now, not here” trance, in which we don’t want to do anything with what we love most for fear of losing it.
I’ve spent an awful lot of time like this. Writing on and off, giving up, taking breaks. Waiting to be ready.
Don’t you think we spend a lot of time waiting? And we don’t even know for what. Or whom.
We get caught up in the day to day routine of being a normal person. We get lost in the little things, and we never get a chance to appreciate the more important ones. We’ve become careless, afraid to explore, to do things, to get our hearts broken.
And you know what’s the biggest problem with all these little, unimportant things? We never try to understand them. We never try to understand what we’re doing. Life becomes a reflex.
Sometimes I get inspired by the most mundane of activities. Not because I’m searching for inspiration, but because inspiration has the bad habit of finding me. Meaningless experiences become meaningful to me. I write them down, and this simple act gives me a purpose in life.
Think of me whatever you want, but writing is the only thing I’m somewhat good at, the only thing I genuinely love doing. And not being able to write for so long, when life was hard, turned me into a bitter and resentful person. Not being able to write when you need to the most is a bigger tragedy than most people would ever imagine.
Because most people never bother to ask: why do you write?
Frankly, I don’t remember anyone in my immediate circle of friends ever asking me that.
Why do people write? Is it for money, fame, glory? Maybe. To prove something? Yes, it can be. Because they want to show us something only they can see? True. But people also write because they want to escape from something. That’s a very powerful motivation. People write because they want to fight against something, and words are the only weapon they have.
Some write because they don’t want to forget, while others write precisely because of that. Maybe people write because they want to live something behind. A legacy, something to last forever.
And some write because no one’s willing to listen to them when they want to say something…
Art has the habit of giving a voice to the downtrodden. Art is often times a way of escaping oppression or fighting against it.
It gave me a voice when I didn’t have one in the real world.
Here’s another funny thing: this is real. The art you make, the words you write. They’re very real, and they influence people in ways you can’t imagine. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, because they’re not you, and they don’t know what you want. They just think they know.
My words matter to me. That’s the most important thing. As long as I write with that in mind, the rest doesn’t really matter. And if my words matter to someone else, that’s just a bonus.
I know I must be sounding like a broken record by now, but with only 11 days to go we’re almost half-way there. There’s still $580 to go.
I can do nothing about this situation, for which I’m deeply sorry and ashamed. So if you can help out, you can do so here. If you don’t help out, no one else is going to, because life doesn’t magically find a way.