To those of you who don’t know me well enough, I say this: My name is Cristian Mihai. I’m 26 years old. And I have been writing for fourteen years.
I make art. I aspire to make beauty.
I wrote because I was broken, fel alone, different, too weak to even matter in a big and cruel world.
It made me feel less awful.
It made me feel as if I was kind of good at something.
Isn’t this what truly matters? How you’d define passion? To be kind of glad you’re kind of good at something.
I hoped a lot during my teenage years. And hope alone carried me and kept me going when all I wanted was to give up.
Good days and bad days, some awful days, some “I don’t want to live anymore days.” Some of the days when you don’t have the guts to keep your head high, when you don’t have the courage to look people in the eyes.
And through all this, my stories, especially the ones I had yet to write, gave me hope.
My struggles are mine alone, and there are no words in any language capable of describing them in such a way as for you to feel what I felt.
But if you make art, you can understand. No matter how different we are. You can understand why art is the highest form of hope.
Dreamers tend to hope an awful lot, don’t they?
They like to fuel their dreams with this idea that no matter how bad they have it, someday it will all be well.