This is a story of a boy who wants to write a story. He’s supposed to write a story by now while sitting in front of his laptop, but instead he just writes about how he’s supposed to write a story instead of actually writing a story because, apparently, he couldn’t write a story. How sad is that? “Well, that’s the whole story,” he thought to himself. “I don’t have any.”
This boy dreams about being a bestselling author someday. He dreams about making tons of money with this passion that he found one day when he was at work, alone and bored while waiting for the minutes to pass until the end of his shift. He was secretly browsing the internet and he found this blog site that shared stories about travel, food, arts, and more. Things he thought he could also write about even though his own life story just mostly includes going to work and going back home.
When he was in high school, the boy also once dreamed of becoming a drummer in a rock band after discovering that he could play the drums, when he joined his classmates who formed a band for a school event. He also thought he could be a guitarist, a front man, or even a pianist. Anything he tries and thinks he’s good at or even just has potential to do, he dreams of it becoming his career. Some of those dreams, he still dreams of today. He’s always quick to decide to switch from one chosen passion to another.
But time has passed and now he’s got bigger responsibilities. He thinks it’s crazy to even think of pursuing a passion and living his dream, whatever it is that he really wants to achieve, or if he even really has one. He thinks he’s being delusional to even think about living a dream. It’s just something that he wasn’t born to do, or born to have. He’s meant to live to be just another brick on the wall. A sprout that failed to grow and would eventually wither without anyone noticing. That as long as he’s working and earning to get by from paycheck to paycheck, he’s doing what he’s destined to do.
He sits down in front of his laptop and would stare at a blank page as he tries to come up with a story. He knows that he shouldn’t wait for an idea to pop up in his mind because he knew that he often cannot come up with any. If he waits for the magic moment, then he might end up waiting forever. So, he just lets his fingers run through the keys and type in whatever he wants to. He worries if what he’s doing is making any sense, but he just wants to write and tell a story.
How did writing end up becoming his new so-called passion in the first place? He’s dreamed of himself being a different person with different talents, but all those dreams were just part of his daydreaming. He likes those things that he daydreams about, yet he didn’t have any interest in putting them to reality. Even if he wanted to, he knew right away that he won’t get anywhere and he’d just be wasting his time. What is it about writing that makes him want to persevere? What makes him think it’s all gonna be worth it?
No. He’s not even that passionate about it. He’s read different tips from other writers and bloggers. All of them are advising him to invest more time in writing. If he really wants to be a successful writer or blogger, he has to put everything aside and make writing his top priority. He has to wake up everyday and create new stories. Stories that will catch his readers’ attention, that will want them to keep coming back to his blog in anticipation to his new posts.
He knows that he’s not as passionate as these other bloggers that he follows. He wanted to. He tries to read different books, but he loses interest so fast that he starts to read a different book before he could even finish what he was reading previously. He’s already read more than five books and hasn’t finished a single one. “Why couldn’t I decide on something? Why am I always bored so quickly?” This boy couldn’t decide on a book, just as he couldn’t decide what his dream really is. What his life purpose really is. Who he really is.
Writing, this boy realized, is not actually a newfound passion of his, but rather an escape. He’s a boy who has a lot of thoughts to share, opinions to be heard, but he chooses to keep mum about it. He wants to tell someone how his day has been, where he’s been, what he’s eaten, what he thinks the world should be, how he thinks people should behave, but it’s all pointless to him. He would just sit back and ask himself, “Why should I even bother opening my mouth? I’ve got hands to write with.”
For some reason- which only he knows, and which even he himself couldn’t understand- he believes that thoughts and stories are better written than said. What’s even the point in that? Yet, when this boy starts to sit down and attempt to write a story that he thought he had in his head, he’d usually just stare at the blank page and fail right away. He couldn’t tell if his mind was playing tricks on him, or if it’s even working at all.
After his failed attempt to write a story, the boy just ends up writing about his current sad situation. He didn’t even give it much thought. He just typed in out of frustration. He writes about how he failed to think of a story that would capture his readers’ attention. The readers who he imagined would give him praise and thanks for what he’d written. His muse failed him once again. “I’m such an idiot. I’m fucking hopeless,” he again thought to himself. Writing is not his passion, but just an escape from reality. The reality that he’s never gonna be able to live his dream, let alone find it. And today, he escaped another one.