“Write the truest sentence that you know,” said Hemingway.
Sometimes that is the most difficult task for a writer.
The truth is: I miss writing. I suffer from an interesting case of ”brain fog” these days. I open the document, I stare at it waiting for something original to appear on the screen, but words seem to evade me.
When I was in high school, not too many years ago, I used to dream that one day I would become a famous writer. I remember spending my summer writing in my diary and dreaming of meeting Mario Vargas Llosa, whose words both crushed me and saved me. I wanted to say important things, I wanted to write so that people would know the real me, not the mask I had been carrying around until exhaustion.
I was unaware then about the reasons people write. I thought writing comes naturally for some, I didn’t ponder much about the difficulties writers encounter. I didn’t know about their own traumas, the things that keep them up at night, their routines and hopes.
Maybe some day I’ll publish a book, maybe I’ll publish *that* book.
I don’t have a conclusion. Maybe this post doesn’t even need one. I’ll let these words drift away for a while in the sea of words that the internet is.
redbrickcoloured 