I don’t write as much as I used to. To be honest, I don’t know why that happened. Or how. Don’t you find it frustrating that we live in a world that makes it almost impossible to admit that you don’t know something?
I don’t know why I don’t write as much as I used to. Yes, I write blog posts. On two different blogs. But those have become an almost subconscious habit. It’s scary in a way. I can write blog posts anywhere, anytime, no matter the conditions, my mood… I can write anywhere.
It is scary because I used to approach writing with a lot more respect and admiration. As if it were magic. Don’t get me wrong, words are magic. If you use the right words in just the right order, you can change the world a bit. But my words are no longer magic. My words are the words of someone who has become so absorbed by the pettiness of life that he can no longer create. He is no longer the creator, but rather the creation.
I am the side-effect of all the words I wrote when I was a dreamer.
I remember those days with the kind of nostalgia that usually breaks one’s heart. I was dirt poor, struggling in all areas of life, yet I was fascinated by the fact that my words meant something to someone. A few people at first. Then more and more. I read each comment and thank-you e-mail with the kind of dumbfounded expression on my face that sometimes made it easy for me to cry.
Actual people read my words. And they cared enough about them to tell me this.
Real people. You understand this? Human beings, taking precious moments of their time to read something that this 22 year old kid from Romania wrote whenever he felt that he had something to say.
I felt invincible. For a while I even was.
My dream ever since I first started writing was simple: become the youngest writer to ever receive the Nobel Prize, and the second writer to receive both a Nobel Prize and an Academy Award. Nothing too complicated. Nothing to worry about.
They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And adverbs. Maybe it’s paved with both. Or neither. Maybe it’s paved with the tears of all the dreamers who stop believing in their dreams during the day, yet can’t help themselves late at night.
I don’t know when it happened or how or even why, but at some point I stopped writing when I felt I had something to say. I wrote because I had to say something. I had to keep blogging, I had to keep growing an audience, to earn a living by doing the only thing I was ever somewhat good at.
As a consequence, I stopped believing in the magic of words. In the art of writing. There was nothing wonderful about it.
Blogging felt like work. Felt like the kind of work that you pray to all the gods to make it end. To just make something happen in a way that it could make it all end…
I got sidetracked by secondary activities, it is true. I lost heart. Sometimes I’d lay awake at night and wonder if I still had a heart.
It happens. Even to the best of us.
Life breaks us all. No matter what.
I am writing these words because I feel the need to recover whatever it was that I lost along the way. This sense of wonder when it comes to the written word. I need it, because without it I am no one in particular.
Funny. I used to think I was no one because I spent so much time writing. A perfect mister nobody.
I read this interesting anecdote a few days ago:
Adam trudged past the gates of Eden, his head low, his feet heavy with remorse and pain.
Then he stopped, spun around and exclaimed, “Wait a minute! You had this all planned! You put that fruit there knowing I would eat from it! This is all a plot!”
There was no reply.
Without failure, we can never truly reach into the depths of our souls. Only once we have failed can we return and reach higher and higher without end.
What I am really trying to say is that I have spent years denying the magic of words, their power, their authority. I have betrayed myself and those who once believed in my words.
Maybe one does have to lose his way in order to figure out the location of his true path. And why he wants to walk it. And where it leads to.
Maybe not all those who wander are lost. Maybe they are searching for what can only be found inside their hearts. They don’t know it yet, so they walk around, looking everywhere but within themselves.