He said he couldn’t write unless he was unhappy, unfulfilled, in conflict, in doubt, uncertain. It is one thing to dream it, it is another to realize it. Most dreams are unreal, unfulfilled and forgotten. Many lives are spent in the illusion that somehow one’s dreams will become true; while many just dream, without ever feeling the need to convert them into reality.
He could have spent his life being lost in his fantasies while pretending to carry on with whatever he was expected to do. He could have pretended he cared about empty relations and responsibilities. But he wasn’t good at faking. Or he could have declared that he just wanted to dream and nothing else. He was torn between the two. He was good at hiding though, so he hid for a long time. He turned into a beast. Sometimes he cursed his fate. Sometimes he longed to just escape into the void of a primitive life of the struggle to merely survive. He stopped hiding when he couldn’t dream anymore. Terrified of this, he tried swimming in this humane stream of the mundane but he almost drowned. Imagination is only alive when you make it real, when you give it a form. Then he dreamt again, he dreamt of finding a way to any place he wanted to be. So he wrote…….
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