The first time I ever laid my hands on pen and paper, I thought of becoming a writer someday. I was a dreamer – a helpless one. I guess it’s always like that, when one is young, you gaze at the world with childlike wonder, as if you could take it at a mere scoop of the hand. The world was bright, shining with a star-like quality that easily dazzles the eye. I found out later that it was like an icing on a cake, beautiful to look at but you’ll never really know what is inside unless you take a bite…
It comes when one feels quite nostalgic about things, it comes when you think that you just had to stop living in the present (or is it mere existing?) And go back instead…go back to childhood dreams? Maybe! After all, the past still holds some kind of magic, ‘though it’s nothing more now than an obscured vision.
Really, if I have to hold my pen again, I wouldn’t think of writing about love, not anymore. those lofty ideals must somehow be replaced by ongoing reality. The dreamer must somehow face the truth that not all dreams come true. And the writer? I guess, I have to try again, there is still that in-depth feeling to be recognized, anyhow, in any way. And if I have to choose my subject, I’ll write about you instead.
