(Photo by Neven Krcmarek)
At the end of the school years, when it was time to fill slam books, in my life goals section I often wrote: “I want to grow up to be an admirable personality.”
That was just a lame way to say that I have haven’t figured it out yet.
Before I came up with this pretentious yet respectable (to me!) sounding goal, it was something like an engineer or something.
I even considered becoming a journalist, a teacher, a bank employee, and many other things that are absolutely out my current range of achievement.
But before everything else, I enjoyed reading.
I read all types of magazines, books, and newspapers whenever I could find them.
Reading sources were not so many back then, and not everything I read was important, meaningful, or useful.
But it gave me a strange high…which is very difficult to achieve nowadays.
But reading doesn’t get you a job, does it? (If there is a job that requires people to read, please sign me up for it!)
Even when I was exploring my options for different forms of careers, changing subjects, disappointing my parents and avoiding meeting people, one thing was always constant: I knew in my heart that I would always write.
No matter what I do for earning a living, I knew that at the end of the day, I would curl up in my bed and write.
Strangely, I earn my living by writing now.
This may sound like a dream come true story, and in some ways it is.
But everything has its perks and cons, writing for a living sounds fun, but gradually, it has sucked the fun out of the actual process.
From something sacred, revered, and personal, it has become something that I have to do.
Writing has now become forced, repetitive, and more about word counts, ranking, and keywords, from a passion it has now changed into just a job.
But I am not the only one who’s not completely over cloud nine while living the very life that they have always wanted to live.
I talked to many people and came to realize that nothing in life, be if your family, your partner, your favorite food, nothing will keep you happy all the time, same goes for our careers.
It’s very liberating to accept the fact that the things, people and places we love are not special because they make us happy, but because they give our life meaningful experiences.
And meaningful experiences, both good and bad, are the highlights of life, aren’t they?
I have slowly realized, (thanks to the lockdown) that writing still makes me feel all sorts of things, just like it always did, the only difference is that now my relationship with writing has changed.
I had gradually started seeing writing as a means to earn my living, pay my bills, and rack of savings.
I stopped writing for expressing myself.
The blogs I wanted to write, the stories I wanted to share, the characters that I have planned, the world’s that I have imagined, the heartfelt messages that I wanted to send, all of them got swept in a corner of my mind, labeled as: NOT WORTH INVESTING IN.
Change is not always wonderful, change is not always positive, but it is better stagnancy.
I am glad that my relationship with writing is evolving and flowing.
I feel kind of stupid, selfish and an imposter to categorize writing only as a means to get material benefits and nothing else.
Countless people are doing what they want to do without getting any obvious benefits, apart from personal satisfaction.
And these are the people who inspired me to write this blog today.
Thank you for posting that picture, shooting that video, making that movie, writing that poem, making that recipe, sharing that meme, planting that tree, and many other things simply because you wanted to, no other reason required.
Apart from the obvious lack of any materialistic benefit, I also don’t write for myself anymore because I don’t think I have that range of skills or talents which are necessary for doing these things.
There are more qualified and talented people out there, who can do everything I do, and 1000s times better than me. I feel small, inadequate, and lacking.
But when have I been under the illusion that what I write is important to others?
There was a time when I collected words, letter by letter, planning to pour years of dedication and love into my Ocean.
But I guess a few streams dry down even if they become a river, never meeting the ocean.
I am one of those streams. I just need to write for myself.
If nothing else, I can just go back and observe my thought processes in the past, relieve the experiences, draw strength from them, laugh at my follies, and treasure my very own handcrafted time capsule.
Sometimes, we must just do want to we love do make a mess, spoil a paper, and bare it all out just for the sake of it.
I am doing it for me, no questions asked, no reasons needed.