A word is dead
When it is said,
I say it just begins
to live that day.
~ Emily Dickinson
‘So, you are a writer?’
‘Uhmm… I believe I am.’
Those twenty seconds that followed the question had thrown me in a sudden ambiguity continuum and before I could come up with an answer, I knew I had to be honest to myself. I found myself released from that vortex of self-contradiction and desire to find the truth for myself only when the next Christmas tune broke the silence. In the uni coffee shop, while friendly chatting over a nice cup of Starbucks’ latest caffeinated drink conquest. It took me a while to come up with an honest answer because somehow, my friend’s innocent question had succeeded to unleash a tacit torment.
For the first time, someone other than myself acknowledged my calling. I couldn’t help but wonder if there is something about it that just shouts out to everyone ‘hey, I am a writer’ or if some of us posses an extra ability to read people.
It was my chance to be honest to myself and publicly acknowledge who I am.
Of course, the highest story of all is yet to be accomplished because I can feel it grow. Slowly, step by step and drop by drop it builds its way out. Very soon it will be complete, but then will I gather the courage to share with the world? I always end up going back to the great names which went down in writing history and while I do not have any unrealistic expectations of ever becoming one of them, I desire a flicker of their courage. After all, we are being judged every single day of our life, most of time not even knowingly. Yet, we find the strength to carry on, because we are not alone and we have a story to tell. And not only once, but always, the greatest books ever written were the mere product of a lifetime translated into hope and purpose. Because no matter how harsh this reality is, if we are able to pass on our story we are vainquers. And perhaps, one day, someone’s hero.