This. You. Me. And the virtual pen…
I could talk about this for infinite times, yet I would never thank you enough. What for? For this! This, right here and now! “This what?” “This, simply this”.
You still play hard to get for understanding what “this” is?
Fine, then let me break it down for you: “this” is a word of 4 letters, describing a thing with no gender, exposing an action done in the present moment… Ha, you, got me! I’m mocking you…
Just before anything else, stop right there. Now [listen to: Burch – Boundless]
Honey, “this” is the single-word expression of the art of writing. Yet, “this” could easily be whatever people choose for themselves to be.
To me, your encouragement (with the simple question “Did you ever think to go for writing?”) to do “this” was blessing. And I feel it every time words come one after another, wait patiently to be put at their places or simply arrange themselves in a row that finally leads to an explosion of passion. You know, both options are true. Still, most of the times, words choose me. I don’t choose them. Is like an invasion I happily surrender to. Is too beautiful to resist. Why put up with something like this?
But you want to know a secret? Can you keep it safe for me? Yes? OK.
You see, once you asked me: “What wakes you up at night?” First option was “web design”. But I l was actually lieing. To you. And to myself. Then, in the next instant, I made the right choice. And it was “this”. The topic of this piece. Writing, my dear, writing. This craft keeps me up and wakes me up. I’m sure most people would call me crazy, as my sleep time is limited, due to all these ideas tumbling down. Yet, in a time when people run for the shelter of money, I breathe through writing. I choose to be the slave of joy and wear the handcuffs of boundless freedom. Does it sound weird? Well, not to me…
If money was indispensable, that’s what I would spend my life doing: filling blank spaces with words of power, encouragement, feelings… I would be the surgeon of a soul, if people would allow me to step into their minds.
Let me ask you something else: did I ever tell you how I wanted to become a psychologist? Now I wonder: “Are psychologists genuine soul surgeons?” If not, then who is? Can a writer do more that sience?
I guess that, if I were to answer my own last question, I would go straight for “yes”. While a psychologist’s activity is grounded by years and years of learning, researching, documenting and applying patterns, a writer could unfold individuality in a glimpse, without invading personal space, but gently opening the box. How come? Just by doing what he/she likes. But I’m not talking about writers that follow deadlines, imposed topics or overthink their talent. No, I’m talking about writers that have everything flowing and floating. No deadlines, no patterns, no boxes, just feeling. The feeling of “I’m writing about this because I want to; my work is me, not a millimeter of someone else; not the dream of others, but my own“.
I could go forever, yet I’ll just lay down this last thing…
A dear friend said, when talking – obviously – about writing: “Dreaming sounds like an un-achievable thing, turn it into a goal!”. But what if this is just an inherited concept, imposed by history, keeping us from exposing our true selves? That’s what society wants us to believe…
I’ll apologize in advance to my friend, if necessary, but you see, when I think of a goal, I think about limits and limitations. Is like passing through an iron gate, seeing the fresh-cut green grass lying in front of me, in an wide-open field, and invading all my senses, providing the oasis of hope; yet, the next moment, I suddenly run into another iron gate – popped out of nowhere, asking me for a silver key to unlock it.
A dream, on the other hand, can break through clouds, reach the highest star, greet the sun and come back to me with an improved degree of supercharge. Therefore, I will say “Sorry, but I choose the dream“… And “this” is it!