It was only today when I realised how much writing means to me.

I was obligated to write an essay, about a topic I did not really know what to do with. The whole task I had to work on seemed a bit odd, and when I first started it I lacked motivation. But as I returned to it, as I started to actually read the article I should base my essay on the words escaped more easily, they started to flow more naturally.
The chore of forcing an opinion on paper didn’t feel like an obligation anymore, finding the right words became more of a funny riddle at first and quickly turned into something natural. Expressing my thoughts made me feel good.

In this moment I remembered my eight-year-old self, remembered the little child I was back then, sitting together with my cousin who wanted to continue writing. What was I supposed to do when she was engaged in her creative work but starting a story as well? So that was exactly what I did, my small hands grabbed a pen and some paper, I didn’t waste much time on character planning and began my first story ever that I wanted to be a book one day.

Eventually I stopped working on it and other stories took its place, many of my ideas managed to escape my brain and ended up on sheets I found around the house.
But from this day on, the dream of one day becoming an author was born and it has never really left me, even though I have realised how utterly unrealistic it is.

There were times I spent more time on writing, there were times I didn’t write a word outside of school. But I never ever stopped entirely, just as I had never managed to suffocate my childhood dream.

And it was that unrealistic fantasy I was reminded of today.


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