I was born with a normal number of fingers and toes. But as years went by, precisely around ten, I gained another „finger” at my right hand in the shape of a pen.
Since then I look at the writing instrument as if it were an extension of my body without which I wouldn’t be myself, but rather a person with fewer feelings and thoughts.
„What happened when you were ten?” you may ask. My folks and I paid a visit to a painter whose thirteen-year-old daughter showed me something magic: her diary. On small, hand-sized white pages with blue borders A. would write about ordinary moments of her life like this sentence I recall now: My dad brought me a cup of tea.
This preoccupation with writing down more or less trivial events enchanted me on the spot and, when I arrived at home, the little monkey in me began her own diary in which I would consistently write noteworthy things for years.
Over the years, when I read those diaries, I would laugh out loud at the involuntary humour I would come across on almost each and every page.
When I reached my teenage years, in addition to keeping a diary for my favourite singer, I began to write small compositions for him with a diligence I now envy.
This phase passed too and during my university years I got very embarrassed by the mediocrity of my writings and tore them to pieces accordingly.
Nowadays I could not have such an approach towards my writings. I sometimes write in a trance-like state, other times I am disappointed by the poor quality of my articles. But no matter their value, my texts are parts of me and if I threw them away I would feel emotionally crippled.
„Why do you keep writing?” you may ask.
I write to better capture moments dear to me.
I write for those moments in which I feel I have a cherry tree blossoming under my skin.
I write for the five or six-year old child I once was who was mesmerized by letters even before she even knew what they were.
I write because of a paradox: to detach myself from people for a while, only to get closer to them through writing.
For all these reasons each thought I write is an occasion to celebrate as the writing process itself brings about endless love, removes all the negative feelings and reminds me what it means to just be.
P.S. A few moments ago, when I invited my mother in my room to read this text to her, Kotik, our tomcat, sat between us to listen to the reasons I keep on writing. I assume he liked it as he began to purr. ☺
Source of the photo:
https://beeinformed.org/2011/06/01/pollen-nerds/