Today I realized that I’ll never make it as a writer. It was not a slap waking me up from a long dream of having what it takes. It was a slow built knowledge upon reading Bukowski, Wells and Eco. Even though sometimes it feels like I can burst from the urge to write down things, even though the thought of losing papers drives me crazy. Even though the idea that the world will one day cease to be a blank paper brings shiver and desolation.
Yet with every idea trapped inside my head, I could never write about this small room where I sit and think and feel inspired without ever writing it down. Yet with the two working eyes supported by glasses I still can not make others understand the simple fan I see in front of me.Yet even with my greatest willingness to make my companions understand the position of my bookshelf my room I still have to stop and use pictures.
What kind of writer runs out of words? What kind of writer sees the world in only two words? What kind of writer stops by every scenery and only uses ‘indescribable’ to explain the whole view? What kind of writer is incapable of making someone far see the view through his or her window without the help of a sketch? What kind of writer finds it difficult to describe their own feelings? What kind of writer runs out of things to say after a mere 400 words?
For if a writer can not depend on words anymore, existence must be unbearable. And yet with my limited imagination I can not imagine this. Probably even if the ability to imagine I possess it will still end up in the warehouse that is my head, begging to be released on a piece of paper. Without ever having its exit. How can you expect someone with the inability to describe a soccer ball to describe an existence which is only in the imagination?
Today I realized that I can not be a writer. Not of a fiction, not of any descriptive kind. Hopefully not not all.