If you look at my writing habits – you’d think, winter is actually the time to do work. It may be. I still consider summer a stronger period. Not because I accomplish more. The opposite, in fact. It’s because I care more. Recently I’ve been fighting an awful disease – it’s called “I don’t care”. I suspect I’ve had it for a few years. It’s like nothing’s worth “caring” about. It’s like when your life enters the perfectly lined tracks of “it works that way, why bother being creative” and when you’ve already accomplished more than most of your peers (give them time to catch up, eh?), but there’s so much more to accomplish, there’s so much more you tell yourself you want, but in reality… what do you want?
You’re not a rocket scientist. You’re a simple person. Reaching out, trying to break the bubble, but it costs you so much more effort than it does to other people – the other talented people, who were born with it. IT – the natural ability to get things right the first time. To care, to love what they do.
Is it worth the effort? My effort? Is anything I do worth it?
Maybe, you would say. Of course. For some people. Is it worth it to me? I don’t really know, I don’t care…
I used to feel a lot more before, you know. Anger, passion, love, disappointment, happiness, satisfaction, hate. I used to look at a blossomed bush and feel its beauty. I still stop and stare at flowers and bushes. I still say they’re pretty. I say it, but I’m not sure what that means anymore. Especially if I walk along with someone who has flower allergies. What’s true to me is not true to you. Where is the truth? There is no truth. There has never been. Just some convictions I used to blindly accept as mine. Why blindly? Because everything was so much simpler when I didn’t know that much. Have you ever met a happy philosopher? Is peace a happy state of being? No, it isn’t – there is no emotion in peace. There is no pain. But there is no happiness either. There’s just gray.
I learned somewhere that pain was a choice. You know, pain hurts. I’m not a fan of hurting – it’s a self-preservation mechanism or something – we strive to stop the pain. And so I did. I chose to let it go. I chose to not accept pain as part of my life. I chose to let my rational mind take control over my hurting soul. I chose to kill the things that I cared about. I chose to make these decisions, and I didn’t realize that you can’t just isolate the pain and get rid of it, because emotions go together. Like a sealed bag of candy – you can’t just pick the Milky-Ways and throw them away, you’ve gotta throw the whole bag away. And so I did, not realizing that I’m getting rid of the only thing that made me who I am. Or maybe realizing it and still doing it – oh, now tell me that I’m not cruel, that I’m not a murderer!
I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m not smart or savvy, and even if I were – what good does that do to my writing? Writing is emotion, wild and pure. Remember – “in every story worth telling there is a love story.” And when that is gone… What is left of a story to tell?
Sure, you can tell other people’s stories. You can try to write comedies. But how do you know what is important and what to put in there? That’s why I don’t write as much as I used to. I’m not sure what matters anymore. What you care about is not what I care about. I care about—nothing. Because I threw that bag of candy away. To survive. And I’m not sure there’s a living soul on this planet who can bring it back to me. There used to be… Not anymore…