2021 has come to an end. I wish I could say good riddance, but it is difficult to say that without knowing what 2022 has in store for us. What if 2020 and 2021 turn out to be the good old days? The past two years have been a rollercoaster. A literal one if one ever existed. I have struggled to motivate myself to write. The better excuse would be to say that I have lacked time. But this simply is not true. I look back to the days when I enjoyed reading and writing and it seems like a whole different world. Don’t get me wrong. I still do enjoy reading but my patience wears thin. I read articles. Sometimes they are the serious kind but sometimes they are the kind with titles that would make Angela Merkel blush. “Putin’s 5 most favourite salads, number 3 will surprise you!”
There was a time I would have sneered at an article like this but now I find myself working to extract the wisdom in it.
Which brings me to my crisis with writing. What if no one reads whatever I write? This is no longer a rhetorical question. What started as occassionally not feeling like writing has morphed into a total disinterest. I just can not be bothered to write, which breaks my heart because there was a time I used to write to relax.
The thing about being on the other side of 40 is that you start developing some urgency. You nolonger stroll. You pick up the pace because you start feeling the force of the oncoming end. There is a decent chance that you might not have enough time to accomplish everything on your list. The cruel joke is that it is exactly the point where your knees begin to hurt.
The question that starts dominating your life is whether somethings are worth your time. Is writing articles that no one has time to read worth my time?
I have concluded that it is worth my time. And I am hoping that 2022 will bring me back the magic of writing. The joy of marvelling at beautifully constructed sentences or the absurdities of everyday life. But most of all, I would like to be able to just write. A few sentences or maybe more…