When I was a boy I liked to write. It was the only thing I wanted to do with my life. I invented imaginary people and filled notebooks with their stories. – The History of Love
You know the saying, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it?
Well, that saying is true. What we want is rarely what we need. Because, in the end, whether we like it or not, what we need is to learn to appreciate what we already have. What cannot be bought, what cannot be taken from us.
But, well, we all have dreams. And dreams do come true… at a price.
I like writing. This is my dream. This is what I love doing more than anything else in the world. I love words. I love to write stories into existence.
Sometimes I write knowing that my stories will never come true.
Sometimes I write hoping they would, somehow, come true.
I write because some part of me feels lonely beyond any other way of redemption. I also write because some part of others will feel less lonely after having read my words.
But, you, those who read my words, you cannot see what lies behind the curtain, so to speak. The things you sacrifice, the people who leave, the hours you spend all alone in an empty and quiet room. Hours of introspection, hours of being but a mere shadow of life, allowing all that takes place in the world to flow through you, so you can better describe what this is. This world. This life. This thing we call being a human being.
There’s always a bit of soul selling going on in order to make our dreams come true. Time we never get back. A little bit of ourselves. A little bit of pain, of hurt, of anger, of uncertainty.
I once read that someone’s success in life is proportional to how much uncertainty that person can handle.
I want to write until I can’t write anymore. That simple. That hard.
I want to write until I have no words left in me.