I have always lived in fear of not being able to tell anything anymore.
I have never been much of a talkative person as I have the unfortunate tendency of judging as stupid what my fellows keep on saying. I have never quite understood what the interest would be for me to tell everyone about my commuting or about my schedule between ironing, eating some pasta, going to the loo and coping with my half-witted colleagues.
Dear reader, we don’t know each other: my life sucks, so does yours. There is thus no need to dig into further details, let’s try our best to keep unspoiled our fragile cordiality.
All my relationships are being gnawed by this feeling: I keep saying and listening less and less. The demon of boredom is growing and widening its presence within my heart.
— Lonely twat, would you say.
Thank you for your empathy. I am not that alone to be honest, I am even in a relationship. It doesn’t help much. I am not going to talk about my boring daily life: evenings are meant to forget, not to force myself to go back into my shitty day. The only interest would be to annoy my audience but the game would very soon start to be tiring, so I keep mum.
Let’s face it, I have a problem. Even though I have always lived in fear of not being able to say anything, I have never stopped longing for creating and writing. I need to tell things but I can’t seem to be able to find what. I could be talking to you about love, sex, violence, passion, history… there is so much out there. And so many can write brilliantly about all that. What then?
My own enemy within has been entertained and distracted for years, as I was professionally hyperactive, as I tried to learn so much. Over the last few months however, nothing but a sickening drying up. Vacuum. And the feeling of not having the talent to tell the stories I would love to. It is as if my personal foe was preventing me from creating anything interesting, from building up my characters, from imagining their emotions, their depth, their lives.
Everything is not to be kept silent and I can luckily still feel a few sparkles warning corners in my soul.
I would live to write, to create and amend. I will never be able to build for you the big story, the unforeseen development, the frantic hunt. I have thus chosen to follow the only chronology that I can not escape. For the few sparkles I can still manage to feel.
I will be telling you about myself and here begins this story.
Translated from this article, apologies for language approximations