“I should write a book about all this, shouldn’t I?”, I suddenly stop up and think to myself one day. “Write about myself – or a fictive version of myself – and catalyze all these thoughts I have into something literary! Maybe that’s what I’m meant to do?”
Is this the stroke of lightning I’ve been waiting for? So soon?
The excitement of the prospect manages to reach a good 10 before it comes crashing down to a 1.
“What a pathetic thought,” I sigh. “A whole book about a naive girl’s reflections on life and her own boring, half-lived one? Come on!”
But then again, aren’t all books more or less about the reflections on life and of life – no matter what stage or level of experience they’re at?
Is my own version then so far off?
However, I trip over my own tongue. Being an INTP, communicating precisely what you think and mean – turning the uncut diamond into a brilliant jewel to hang around your neck; alchemizing, in reverse, all this precious gold into useful rock so that you can build a house from it – is tricky at best. When spoken or written, the jumble of thoughts usually remains a jumble of words to everyone else – and sometimes even to the INTP.
Despite having stated in previous posts and to myself and to everybody else that I have no clue what I want to do, I’ve realized that I do want to write. I’ve always wanted to write. It’s what I do here and write about here; what I’ve always done, more or less. And it takes some swallowing to realize that the very thing I love the most is also something I trip over.
You may have tripped over it as well, trying to decipher some of my posts here? It wouldn’t surprise me.
I’m trying to make sense of all of it myself. It may strike a core with you but you cannot explain it, can you? It’s just one of those times where words aren’t enough to explain what resonates with your own jumble of thoughts and feelings inside. And then again, they just did, didn’t they?
Writing is possibly the least predictable, sustainable occupation in the world. You can use a lifetime to become someone or stay that someone and end up hating that bureaucracy and money still talk. Realizing the hateful but necessary duality of the truth: That no arts are ever truly free of capitalism and that you cannot survive a lifetime without money. That you cannot produce art and give your work freely away and live on nothing, no matter how ideally free and appealing that may sound. My inner realist and common sense won’t allow it.
Anyways, there’ll always be things you will not like and obstacles to cross. And surely, my inner idealist will not allow the thought that the arts themselves will not manage to prevail.
Still: To be free to do what you love. Isn’t that what we all want in the end?
I will try. I will try, I tell myself.