How often it is that we don’t realise what we have in our lives that we need to be grateful for. How very often it is that in the competition to become absolutely like someone else we often forget who we are, only to realize it when it’s too late. Of course I also have some reservations about this phrase “too late” since what is exactly “too late” if anything? Pffft.
I am 35 and I still do not want to think that it is too late… so is it a relative term then? I thought 35 would be too late when I was 25… but now I believe I still have time until I reach 45. Will I still have time at 45? Maybe. Maybe I’ll never know and maybe that is all that keeps me alive. HOPE. The ability to think that there is still something out there that might have the slightest ability to make my life better than what it is now. Something that will miraculously make me realise all of my idle potential, something that will inspire me again, release all my fears and eventually make me a better version of myself.
To many people I know, I write about nothing at all, crap, if you may. My own opinion of my humble attempt at writing is not much different. But then, I write from the heart; whatever stumbles upon my ever-confused mind, somehow takes the shape of the written word. It’s uncensored, raw and rather unpolished. And that is exactly what makes it feel what it is, crap or perhaps nothing…. but decisively mine. Call it whatever you may but I know I excel at it. And there are not many things I excel at.
Even if I feel like imitating someone from time to time, deep down inside I have this irritating awareness of who I really am;
cunningly deceiving what I write every now and then, giving me away.
The absolutely wonderful fact is that I do not write for any specific audience at all. Who am I writing for? I still do not know, but someday someone will just accidently stumble upon this blog of mine and will want to read exactly what I write.
I will keep writing for that one person.