Sometimes I wonder if there is any truth at all to my claim that I love to write. Can I say that I have ever done it consistently over a longer period? Can I say that I am ever pleased, or even satisfied with what I have written? Can I even say that I have ever derived any pleasure from it?

The answers to those questions are: Absolutely not, on very rare occassions, and only if you regard “a constant struggle with your inner self” as a form of pleasure. So let’s recap: I haven’t done that much writing in my life in the first place, and when I do write, I only manage to produce a few crappy pages, even after hours of frustration. Even in all my imaginations (and boy, do I have tons of those!), that is not how I would define love.

Yet I always feel uneasy inside whenever I haven’t written for a while. This blog is a good example. I’m not updating it as often as I originally thought I would, but I keep thinking about it EVERY SINGLE DAY. It’s so frustrating. I can have a very satisfying job, lead an extremely rich and full life with all my friends and family around me, but as long as I don’t write, I will never feel as if I am ever really complete.

Writing. I can’t live with it, but I sure as hell can’t live without it.

Hmm… On second thought, maybe what I feel isn’t that far off from “love” after all.