Recently someone asked me what it would be my message to all people out there if I had only one chance to pass it on?
Just one try and nothing more.
I write all the time. It might be on a blog, on a website, on one of the countless diaries I have or on the napkin next to me. It doesn’t matter. I write. This is what I do. This is my way to express who I really am. This is my way to leave behind me every little piece of wisdom, experience or randomness I gather on the journey of my life. Thousands of tiny messages.
Looking back into the moment when I wrote my very first poem, I still remember the urge I was feeling to express it on paper. An urge that I actually can’t explain. You just feel it – in your stomach, in your head, in your throat. It is at your fingertips. And you have to set it free. I have to.
The blank page has always been my best friend. And every time when I start writing the first word, I have no clue how I would like to end the page. It’s a process that hides surprises. This is what I find beautiful. And this is where I put my trust. Maybe because I am a believer, maybe because I enjoy it so badly, but I know there is a sense in that. There should be a purpose. And I might not see it now or even in this lifetime, but something always whispers gently that I have to do it. For myself and for the others.