Cold autumn evenings when everything is shrouded in darkness. Some huddle together to keep warm during their wait in the windy bus station for the bus that’s late again. Others are trying to find their voice. Twisting thoughts start to resemble a confusing kind of fog like the one that’s been welcoming us each morning when we step outside the warm comfort of our homes.
Whether we like it or not, in this age of easy comfort, the good things, the beautiful ones, the ones that are worth it are still achieved through hard work and real efforts. I don’t believe in half measures, I dread them, even though conceding to the harshness or hopelessness of a certain situation is the greatest temptation of all. I persevere, because I’m in love with the beautiful and the wholesome. And even though sometimes such an attitude proves to be more hurtful than healthy, I have to call myself out on something – more than anything, I’m in love with the beauty of potentiality.
I find few things more frustrating than staring at the blank page (or worse, at just a few crippled sentences laid out in desperation). Still, I continue to confront myself with the blank page every day. Sometimes I manage to break it, it eventually moulds to my will, the words start pouring out and before I know it my thoughts have crystallized into a coherent story on the page. Most days, however, I’m defeated by the emptiness. I find encouragement in the fact these instances are becoming rarer and rarer. So I persevere. And I hope deep down that I’m doing more than just treading water, but instead I’m reaching out to more than just my momentary frustrations or transient excitement.