“In everybody’s life there’s a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can’t go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That’s how we survive.” – Haruki Murakami
I don’t know what artists are made of, but it isn’t happiness. Perhaps it’s fear; to be so afraid of the world that you do nothing but observe. You turn yourself into a quiet shadow. You interpret the world, you give it a new meaning every day.
But I don’t think that’s the point… of art, of life.
The point is to change the world.
And maybe it’s ironic, that the ones the world almost breaks are the ones who do everything they can to change it.
My soul is made of words. All the words I never spoke. All the words I regret I ever spoke. All the words I never got a chance to write. All the words I could have written better. The words that got lost inside my head, never to be retrieved.
I write because I can rarely make myself understood. I struggle to find the right words. Maybe I never find them, because I’m afraid the person I’m telling them to won’t understand. Or care.
But when I write… that’s when I am free. The world fades to nothing. I write, and I know that I am. I write and I know that someone will understand. Someone will care.
It’s my own little way of changing the world.
But words can’t express what I’m feeling right now. The treatment I need is too expensive. The problem is too serious. The pain won’t let go. The fear is always there, lingering at the back of my neck.
There’s not much else to say.
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