Am I the same person I was yesterday?
Will I be the same person tomorrow?
Life is traveling like a shooting star.
All fast and sparkling.
But, eventually, fading.
I am 29.
And I've just known what love is.
What will I learn when I am one year older?
I've been sucked into the vortex of my new job. It's been extremely busy, but the disconcerting thing is that I'm enjoying it, despire the fact that I've put in 8 hours on a Friday, something I've never done before and that I didn't think I'd even contemplate.
I've hardly had time to catch my breath. Hours and days are tinged with a sensation of timelessness, time has no more weight. And through them there is one thing that now matters to me most. One thing and one thing alone. And it's a beautiful thing.
No, I've not been writing. The truth is that I actually miss writing. I miss being a 'writer'. And all that comes along with it, the freedom, liberation, wrecklessness, carelessness... a complete disregard for reality. I am a writer of fiction. And fiction is what I write.
But I don't feel I am the same writer I was four, five or even ten years ago! I no longer write because I NEED to. There is a sense of obligation, of responsibility, an unwelcomed burden.
I want to go back to the writer I am. Go back to losing myself into the thick of it, and not the idea of it. I worry, and this is, now, my darkest worries, is that I will never be that writer ever again.
