White paper. Sometimes, it’s the hardest thing to fill with black letters that go on endlessly. And there’s so much I want to put into those letters that shape words…

Words that shape a multitude of thoughts, swarming in my head and screaming to come out.

To see the world, to know that they haven’t buzzed in vain in that strange space when they deserve to breathe.

But sometimes it’s so hard to find the right words, the right way to turn a thought into meaning.

Sometimes the reason is a lack of ideas. Sometimes too many ideas, so that none can clearly crystallize and become dominant enough to surface and take the lead.

But as long as fingers dance on the keyboard, there is hope.

There is hope that the fog in the mind will clear quickly enough because, look, it’s almost time to connect the monitor to the keyboard and move on to the rest of the day, which doesn’t ask if you’d rather stay here among the black letters, white paper, and black-and-white keys of the laptop.

Reality is then so loud, screaming from all sides.

Work, family, school!

Work, hello!

And even the laundry won’t pick itself up and fold.

Then I envy.

I envy all those writers who could dedicate all the time of this world to just that – formulating their thoughts into meaningful units that still carry meaning today.

Or is that just my imagination and idealization of times and people we don’t know?

Yes, it’s easier to imagine them bent over a table or typewriter, with coffee or something stronger next to the paper, lost in thoughts swarming and wanting to come out, there, onto that paper.

It’s easier to idealize them and hope that, one day, you’ll reach exactly that – the utopia of the writer, unaffected by any external factors.

Unaffected by life.

The art for the sake of art.

But is that life at all?

Would it have the same charm as now, because now I know that I appreciate every minute spent in front of the screen, every minute I’ve stolen from everyday life just for myself and my words.

Probably not.

On Writing

But what is a person without imagination and nostalgia for what never was, nor will be, yet desperately hopes for and strives for? Empty?

Yes, it definitely is. Empty.

How to balance living here and now, truly living, not just surviving, yet still creating something that will make future generations wonder for centuries how you managed to devote all the time in this world to your passion, to what you were born for, to what has always drawn you, and you didn’t know how to let it out.

It’s a privilege to think about it, I know.

It’s a privilege to have the time to worry about those worries.

And you feel gratitude, but it doesn’t ease the pain you feel.

Because you feel it, everything you are and everything you want to be. Everything you’re not and don’t want to become. That’s all you, and that’s exactly what sets you apart from another self, what distances you from it or connects you to it.

And it’s useless for time to stand still while you’re here, because realistically, time is rushing by, hanging over your head like a noose, because it won’t wait.

And yet you love this life because you built it yourself. Because you assigned it to yourself so that you can enjoy it.

And so it goes on and on…

Pleasure and doubt alternate from day to day, from hour to hour, from minute to minute.

I wonder if the moment you close your eyes forever, that circle ceases to exist, and you finally reach the destination where you were always supposed to be, or if it takes on a different form.

I don’t know, and even when I find out, I won’t be able to tell you, because you won’t hear me then.

That’s why I write while I’m here.