Doing is being. I reprise.

You should write. I say to myself. Every day. I sit, I stare, I think. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. Mostly not. I am blocked.

I am taking things for granted. I believe I deserve it. When I am not.

I have time. Hours. Yet I spend it on Facebook and wonder;
Where does the time gone? What have I done?
I lay my head down at the end of the day, knowing nothing has been done and the day is gone.

I wake up in the morning, hoping I will find the Inspiration. The Muse sitting at the end of the bed, breakfast steady and ready for another day of victory.
And suddenly, it’s 9 pm and the time is gone. We have none. I feel guilty.
I had a chance, I had the time. I had the same time as every other human being.

Yet, I failed, gracefully. I betrayed myself and my story.
I lied and I cheated my way through, ending the day with not a page, but nothing to show.
I will write tomorrow, I will write another day.
It’s easy to say.

There is no pressure. There is no urge.
What a foolish thing to say.
When one could step in front a bus any day.
Being hit by a car by accident. Being an arm-length from an exploding bomb. Mad days are coming, anything is possible.

Doing is Being, as my mentor, Ray Bradbury Said. So I must Do.

„…To not to do is to die,
Or lie about and lie about the things
You just might do some day.
Away with that!
…Let your body lead your mind –
Blood the guide dog to the blind;
So then practice and rehearse
To find heart-soul’s Universe,
Knowing that by moving/seeing
Proves for all time: Doing’s being!”



I have a constant companion. His name is Fear. Fear that my writing will never be good. Fear that I will accidently get lost in my own stories. That I actually hurt people with it. Real people.

Others think they are just the part of my imagination, just some kind of mind-creations. No. They are all real to me. As long as their story is unwritten, they are safe, they are not complete. Once it is written, it cannot be changed. It is done. I can’t save them any more.

Some people say I don’t have to kill them. Well, I don’t want to… Sometimes, the story demands a sacrifice, a sacrifice that cannot be denied. Yes, it is meaningful, but seeing all the pain it causes makes me want to cry out loud.

I feel everything that my characters feel. I share their happiness, their sorrow, their pain. I am right there, when they have to make the decision, when they have to act. And not always in the way that is forgivable. To me, they are more living that most people that I know in real life.

I may not become a writer, out of the fear that I hurt these people in my head. I don’t want to cause pain to anyone. I might be too sentimental for most people, but this is how I feel. Writing makes me both ecstatically happy and incredibly sorrowful. I wish there would be another way. But I suppose I just have to live with this. I have to try and give them a purpose, a reason to die for. I want people to sing songs about them. To look up for them. To represent the ideas of a dreamer.

A dreamer of a better World.