I’ve been told to write, advised to write, I have been longing to write. I write because I think the world needs to read and to keep informed, but not just to be informed. I think the world lately has become way too pragmatic and forgot how to fantasize, forgot how to dream and to create.
I think that the words metaphor and epithet need to be accompanied by an entire series of creative writing techniques, and not just words describing somebodies sarcastic character.
I write because I came to this world in an era where Tom and Jerry was that ugly ass cartoon, that you could only watch half an hour a day, since there was nothing else for kids on TV at that time. It was that old dusty cartoon that you only get to appreciate when you grow up with the idea of the “educational” kind of cartoon it used to be. The naive kind of cartoon we used to watch, and the non-disclaimer kind of cartoon we were able to watch without burning down our houses and killing our siblings. The non-violent-growing-up-as-a-kid kind of cartoon.
Because back in that era, if you wanted to be entertained you could’ve chosen between gazing out the window on cold autumn days, playing with old raggedy toys or reading and living in a different kind of world, 100% percent yours, to form, to create and to grow in. This whole inconsistence had also the door number four, where you could just step outside and play in the cold autumn rain, in the puddles and the fang, because no rain would melt the true spirit of a 90’s kid.
And if fantasizing while looking down the window was your drug, it would have been about a made up world, all yours, where you could dream to have all the Barbies and Transformers in the world, all the toy cars, and roller blades in the Neckermann. To have made-up friend, all yours and authentic, that spoke funny languages and did silly mistake on your behalf.
If answer number two made your day it would’ve been in couch pillow fort, with blankets on top of chairs, and dimmed lantern lights. You would hide in that tent and fantasize about the friends you were going to have, the house of your dreams and all the gadgets from Star Trek in solving the mysteries from Twin Peaks.
Whereas if you liked escaping the real world and the weather and the family feud, you could just fish-up a book from the shelf, smell the oldness in it, feel the roughness of the pages, see the dent of the covers, and understand the story behind the story. You could escape yourself, thinking about what went through the writers head while writing, thinking about what if the story was actually real and what if the writer didn’t really mean what you think he meant, or what the teacher wants you to think that the author meant.
I mean, how can one ever know what the writer really meant to say? What if when he wrote “Sleeping birdies” he just meant to speak of the characteristic of the birds to be sleepy at that time of night. Or maybe he didn’t even think about a certain period of time and he just spoke about the fact that birds almost always tend to be asleep, maybe he was just thinking aside from time and space and those were just the words that could give him the rhyme. Or the rhythm, and at this point, if you don’t know about the rhythm outside of the shitty crappy stupid songs you jam on, I would kindly suggest to go find yourself and stop reading this text.
My kind of reading gave you a way and a mean to escape or to evade into this all-yours made-up world that nobody else could’ve seen like you do, because none of the words could’ve ever made the same sense to another like they had to you. Because you could feel them, like they were yours and understood them like none other, they would be a part of this little piece of you, from the bottom of your soul…
And you know what, this was not the times of the oppression, not the times you would go out and discuss with your friends about the books that you read, these were the simple times when reading was just for you, you were not necessarily hiding it, but you were not bragging about it all over the web, or the school – which was the social media of that time.
These were the times when reading was something normal, not mainstream or underground, but it was something personal also. It was like taboo, non-related to school, non-related to nationality, non-related to race.
If I could ever sum of this story, I would say that I write so that my days of reading could be prolonged, passed over to others, so that good readings and writings could still be a thing, and not something that now is cool, tomorrow it isn’t. Writing or reading shouldn’t be part of a trend but something more like a part of whom we are, as a species.
Reading is some sort or sales because whatever you do, you can’t stop from reading – reading a face, reading a text, reading minds, reading reactions, being polite.
Now I wouldn’t want to digress from the subject, but I write because I want to inspire, to form and inform. I write because I feel like the classics are fading in front of the new elite, the chic class – the cool kids.
I write because literature needs to be a part of tomorrow and because it’s OK to think different and to speak in riddles and think and also overthink. I write because you don’t need to be a sociopath, you can just be intelligent, you can just be polite. I write because human kind deserves a second change to be kind, to be an empath, to be driven to change for the best.
I write because I think this is what I know to do best, because I think this is the best that I could leave behind me, because this defines me and gives me a meaning. I write because I want to let go, I write because I want to define myself, express myself, analyze myself, define myself.
I write because I want to be read… Why does anybody write?