Today I found my self thinking extremely harsh; why am I not writing anymore?
I don’t think I can ever give a complete answer about this, but meanwhile cleaning my old room, found some old pieces. Grabbed page number one: ‘Dear Sinner’ and in that moment something crashed at me. My old book. The promise I made to myself and the characters, that even when nothing is going to be valuated, I would still write.
The thing is that I am definitely not doing it. I am just simply not keeping my promise.
Honestly, I have never considered myself talented, or gifted, but is that feeling of emptiness that captures me when I want to put something in paper and awkwardly doesn’t happen.
While my mum was waiting for me at the door, read only a page and a half in 2 minutes and that was enough to remember it all the travel and wonderland I went through writing it. I am not sure if I can say that had ever existed another ‘most happy’ period of time. And I swear, in that moment, something started to move inside of me, something familiar but also strange. Got goosebumps all over my body, crashing my mum’s starry eyes.
The same look as years ago while Dear Sinner came to life. Hopefully I am not wrong, was the year 2015, me and her in the supermarket trying to buy special French Essences’ as she refers to the perfumes. While walking between the biggest Perfume Creators names, a small bottle grabs my attention weirdly. Immediately putted some to test it, and smelled the tester in a second like I was trying to remember someone. Well, the strange thing, is that that person doesn’t exist. Yeah, like you just read, because that smell remembered me in a second the connection I have always had in my mind of the name and the image for Max, the main character. I felt his existence in my mind, he was still alive, still searching for that one reason to continue living. It was exactly in that moment, when I promised that I would always keep on writing. Also my reaction while my mother was looking at me made her think that I am crazy.
“Don’t tell me you are still in your wonderland..” – she said. I couldn’t say any word because I felt that probably is true. Was ever anything of this real? Did all the writers feel the characters like this?
She was still talking while my mind flew back to Spain, where Max used to live…back at the time where he was touched by love, doubt, secrets, darkness, surrounded by a huge mansion full of old scary paintings that looked like they moved, hearing all the time the whisper of his parent’s soul. I can still see him walking through the hall with his heart and mind burning and blue eyes full of water. Few seconds later I find him entering at his room and lying in the bed keeping that Fetus Position for hours. I could still feel his fear and the need to keep his eyes closed like he was trying to avoid something.
My mother calling me woke me up. Closed the book, putted in my bag and walked away from my room, still thinking if everything was worth it. Thinking that every story holds something bigger inside and between the lines. One day I dream of the World reading about Max. In fact, he will feel less alone.
Max is the world and the World is Max. If none of us can find themselves talking in the real life, let’s do it with some book pages. Let that person who just lost everything, to find out that there is always a way out, that there is no need to be afraid, that maybe crying is good. Maybe we should let that person learn how to not drown, by teaching his inner demons how to swim. That person one day, will wake up in the morning and will open the curtains by letting the sun in, and not let them closed like he always does.
You see the light? Please, believe that there is still some hope, and nobody will steal that from you.
Heanna Malaj 2017