On cold and dark night of December I wrote my first story. It was for the first time that I had the vision, that my eyes saw more than what was right there, in front of me, that my ears heard more, and my mouth wanted to speak in a voice that was louder than ever before.
I wanted to reach people, I wanted to share with them the same dream I had. It was happiness in a way that you know it can only last for a few moments, that kind of happiness you could never expect to last longer. I was happy because I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
Honest to God, that’s how I felt as I wrote my way into a story that would never get finished. I just wrote carelessly into the night, and it felt as if within me was a unstoppable force. I was invincible, in a sense that nothing else mattered.
Writing kind of does that. Well, making art does that. It takes away troubles, struggles, bitterness, and sadness… it takes it all away, it takes away pain, regret, frustration… it gives you freedom and clarity and power. It gives you an ideal to strive towards, it gives you a fragile perfection that could never survive in our world.
It takes it all away, and that’s all that matters.
I’ve been writing for ten or so years now. I’ve been alive for more than twice that. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve hurt people, sometimes I even hurt myself. I regret things that I did and things that I didn’t do. I was afraid at times, I was alone, and I felt lonely. I’ve won and lost many battles.
And I wrote.
All these years, I wrote and wrote and wrote, and no matter where I was or what I was doing, no matter how bleak the future seemed at times, I kept on writing. Because… just because.
Because I could, and because writing makes me happy, because I wanted to leave something behind, because I felt that I needed to say more than what my mouth was capable of uttering. I wanted to be heard, I wanted for the whole world to see life as I saw it.
Each and every one of us must have a dream, one that they should hold on to, no matter what. On the loneliest of nights, that dream is the fuel that keeps them alive. You don’t need anything else. You have a dream, you want something. You love something. You have passion.
Without passion, without love, life’s not much. In a sense, life’s nothing.