The day seemed unbearable. Once again, I felt I was hollow and purposeless without my writing. I went about the day quietly, in recluse, waiting for the hours of writing to come.
They were like a set date, an important meeting to attend, a conference that required my presence.
Whenever the hour came a spark of excitement got hold of me; I would feel it peak inside of me and bless me with a great sensation of euphoria.
Yes, for you see, there exists no better feeling than that, no greater sensation than the knowledge of being able to write. And write. And write continuously.
For after all, I thought, that is what writing is: a continuous movement. A movement that marked itself from the beginning of the ages and kept evolving until today. A movement that learned to preserve itself in order to be passed down from one generation to another.
Surely, today writing pales in comparison to other professions: doctors, lawyers, engineers, businessmen all have their pick of jobs, but in the end, that is precisely what those professions are: jobs.
Writing, on the other hand, is a craft, an underrated and under-appreciated mode of complete self-expression and exultation. An art, a guide to the soul.
Often I find the need to go back and retrace the roots of writing to remember its immense and powerful impact on civilization and mankind as a whole. It reminds me that words have power, the power to compete with a degenerating world and a fading humanity.
It breathes soul into the soulless, emotion into the senseless and wisdom into the clueless.
Its resources are unlimited, its rewards unmatched.
While other professions seek requirements, writing demands none. Its only prerequisite is for the writer to get down to writing. And believe. For you see, belief is the key to everything. The rest is just an added touch to turn the illusion to reality.
As I sipped my drink I thought about how long I have been writing. It seemed as if it were yesterday when I started typing at my laptop, filling white pages with crazy and demented ideas. Only I couldn’t really tell, I couldn’t really remember. For you see, from that moment on, writing had become much more than a job, much more than a profession to me: it went beyond being the labor that filled some of the hours of my day, it became a routine, a lifestyle. It quietly snuck in and incorporated itself into my dreams, my time, my reality. It became my only reality.
It is a part of me, a part of my being: an inseparable part of the human being I am today. It is what I thrive on, live off, and rely on to keep on making it in this world.
And where is the proof, you ask? Where is the proof of this great art in the making? Where does it all go, the thinking, the imagining, the writing, if not to come back in some form of return? A monetary payment, perhaps?
Well, there is no proof. No absolute certainty that this deranged and demented craft is going anywhere. No assurance whatsoever that this art is flowing into the brains of another, or others. No materialistic or visible return.
Why do I do it, then, you promptly ask? Well, because I am the only one who has confirmation of the proof. I am the only one who sees viable evidence and corroboration of this art.
For you see, whenever I write, writing speaks to me. It acts like a portal to my soul, a gateway to my thoughts. It cleanses my spirit, from the good, the bad, the fiendish, the innocent, the frenzied, the pure. All that is within me. All of my being, translated and transcribed into words. Words of wisdom, words of wonder.
Perhaps even, words to ignite the words of another.
That is my belief, that is my validation.
I open a bottle of beer. The brew looks good tonight and as always, it calls me. It weakens my mind and sucks me into its world. A world of utter and pure delight filled with madness and sorrow and weeping. But, I forget, I have my laptop screen shining back at me. It glints as if it too is calling me. It invites me into the world of words, where I once again may become man, restore my pride and feel powerful. With these two by my side, I know I am safe from the demonic world outside. I know I have found shelter somewhere in the small corner of my room.
I can be at ease. I can set my mind to rest and drink peacefully. For after the wasted minutes, I will rise again and start typing at my laptop. Just as I had begun to do once upon a time…
And just then, writing will have taken over my world again.