In some ways, I’ve always been a writer, but if I was being honest, I really began writing because I wanted to be one of the greats. I wanted to leave something behind that was celebrated for years after I disappeared.
Now, however, I don’t feel the same. I don’t want to be great and neither do I feel I deserve it. There is no great tragedy in me or my life. Nothing of enough mettle to prove that I persisted even though I did. My battles were in the every day — in the mundane.
Although, I think I know why I write now.
I want to write a word so honest and plain that it pushes someone else, perhaps, someone around or someone way beyond my time, in just the right way. Maybe, they come across something I said and it rubs them off in the wrongest way possible, or maybe, it stirs something in them that wasn’t there before.
So, I document this ordinary life — one without anything epic or grandiose in it. I do it honestly in every way I can, in every form I can, and I’ll continue doing it until I vanish. I don’t know any other way, and I have nothing better to do.
So, if you are who I have talked about, and if you’re reading this, do me a favour. Be great. Be greater. The world requires more like you and less like me — those who dwell in the every day. Just promise me that you’ll be honest, and I promise you, the greatness would arrive on its own.
Then, you won’t need anything at all.