Stories. The ones we tell ourselves, about ourselves. The ones we tell others about who we are, or used to be. Stories. Without them, the world would be perfect, for this terrible hunger inside us would not exist; the urge to be defined, to be more than who we are.
Stories. Without them, we would be nothing, have nothing.
Sometimes I can almost hear the sound of my soul crushing under the weight of a terrible destiny.
I am a writer because no one ever bothered to listen to me tell my story. Because I could never live the story that I so desperately needed.
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote…
I punched those damn keys, and wished that my stories would, somehow, someday, come true. But they never did. Not even once.
The bitter truth is that a writer is a bunch of different people inhabiting a body, and he never has the guts to choose one path, one destiny.
I am a bunch of opposites.
Lately, I have felt that I have lost myself. I feel trapped inside this cage. I feel like I have told myself that I have come to love this cage. The story I tell myself about myself.
Who am I? Why?
Who are you? How often do you ask yourself this question? How often do you adjust your sails on this great sea of life?
If you enjoy my writing, and would like to support me, you can donate any amount you see fit via PayPal here.
Any amount matters, especially now, as I work on completing two different project.