“It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.” ― John Steinbeck, East of Eden
I’m some eleven months through my 27th year on this Earth. You know, artists are notorious for dying at this age. The infamous 27 Club.
I feel fine. I workout every day. I drink plenty of water. I try to get my eight hours of sleep. I try to eat healthy. I take some supplements, multivitamins and stuff. But I am feeling a bit older than I did when I first started this blog. I feel tired after less hours of writing than I used to.
It’s not being dead, but getting closer to death that scares us, right?
I am also a bit heartbroken, as artists are supposed to be from time to time.
It’s been years since I found my ideal reader. That’s my definition of a soulmate, and the closest thing to falling in love with another human being. Someone who understands my words, who wants to read them, who underlines them in the books I give her. Someone who encourages me to reply less to e-mails, and to write more fiction. Someone who reminds me I was, am, and always will be a writer.
I have lost that person. Maybe irredeemably. I don’t know. It feels like that. Like the kind of goodbyes that never feel like goodbyes until you are sitting all by yourself at your desk and you try to write and no words come out. And you want to tell them that, and you can’t.
It’s not distance that breaks people’s hearts. No. She lives rather close. Distance is not the issue. Misunderstanding is. When you try to tell someone how they make you feel, and all they hear are words.
Something like that.
This means that I haven’t been feeling like myself lately. Right now, I feel like there’s a part of me missing. A few days ago, it was even worse. It felt like dying and being forced to keep on living.
And, yes, I recover fast from heartbreaks. I have had quite a few experiences. Soulmates never die, but they leave, find some other soulmate, or just turn out to be someone different than who I thought them to be.
All this made me think of death. In the sense of running out of time.
Do you ever feel like that? Like running out of time? Do you ever fear when that moment will come? The bitter end? Its unpredictability?
I guess I am just tired, and I want to write my feelings down. Quite selfish of me. But I am… tired. Trying to live a life you’re proud of is the most exhausting thing one can do. Trying to be good, to be competent, to love, to…
In moments of heartbreak we wonder if we’ll ever get the ending we want. If we’ll ever be happy. Loved. Fulfilled. If we’ll ever find someone who genuinely appreciates our presence, who loathes our absence, who supports our dreams, who is willing to fight for us day in and day out.
Someone to miss us when we’re gone.
Whenever you lose someone you feel you could spend a lifetime with, it feels like… it feels like death, actually. It feels like the life you live is this strange terror. Part comedy, part tragedy. One eye laughs, the other cries.
I reckon that this line of thinking is not in tune with the realities of the world, but artists like to dream a lot. We’re idealists.
In an ideal world I’d have my ideal reader, and we’d have fun editing stories, and I’d tell her all my ideas, and I could decide on which one to work by the way her face would light up. Something like that.
Like I said, I am not feeling like myself.
For this, I apologize.