There seemed to be a time when I was truly losing it, when I was undeniably going mad and falling in the clutches of insanity…
I had experienced such times on various occasions before but this one seemed particularly poised to haunt me…
Anyhow, it happened one time when I met with a group of my buddies. We sat down for some drinks and we took turns talking about our lives, women, jobs…
As each of my mates spoke they went on complaining about their work and how hard life was and how working 8-9 hours every day was never enough to pay the bills and made it all the more mundane and ensnared them into a trap they couldn’t escape from…
As they spoke and complained and cursed and drank and spat I realized my life wasn’t going in the same direction as theirs. Here I sat in the middle of a crowd that almost became unfamiliar and unrecognizable to me. I was the poorest of them all, having no college degree and no job and nothing else worthy enough to show for myself. Yet somehow, I didn’t feel as though life was passing me by.
Maybe I was missing something.
But in some strange, twisted way, I didn’t feel trapped in that same raging vortex they spoke about. I didn’t feel beaten down by life.
I didn’t carry some sort of demonic grudge on my everyday routine which – ironically – was as mundane and dry as theirs since it revolved around a singular activity: writing.
However, in fairness and in defense of myself, writing was far more than a simple activity to me – even far more than a mere job.
You see, in a world mostly ruled by injustice, corruption, void, power and greed, there are few things that could still delight a man and tickle his senses. Writing is one of those things to me. It is similar to breathing; natural and effortless. It is the fruit I look forward to sucking from every single day, passionately drinking its juice and marveling from its taste.
So while they were all talking I spaced out into another world where I was the only one and I would wake up in my small house and walk out my small red door and into my small neighborhood where I was the only neighbor. I would stand there in front of my door or maybe even sit down on the sidewalk and take a moment to breathe in the quiet and solitude…and then I would go back inside and write for the rest of the day.
So yeah, there were a few advantages to being a small-time writer in a big world after all; all it took was a nice humble gathering with a few friends who had it even worse than you to realize it.
Needless to say, on that day, I was the one who recorded the shortest speaking time and stood there silently while the others exchanged words and thoughts and argued and bickered and complained to each other. All I could think of was being back in the quiet of my room spending some quality time in front of my laptop – maybe even writing a few good pages.
After the gathering, each one of us returned to his home, to his job, to his life. They all went to sleep that night carrying a single thought: having to wake up and go to work the next day.
Little did they know my work had started that same night.