When did you lose your will to write? Where is that passion you once had? Where is your source of inspiration? These questions always pop in my mind whenever I remember that it´s been a while since I neglected my medium posts or even the black notebook I have in one of my drawers, forgotten, collecting dust and listening to unwritten conversations.
My notebook is now full of dead flowers. I like to collect and dry them between its pages. My dear flowers can tell different stories. Each one of them reminds me of a different occasion. If each one of those flowers could spill ink on my forgotten notebook, they would tell stories themselves. Their stories would start from the day they were picked from their peaceful garden until the day they were bought as gifts for me, and how now they are sitting there, between the pages of a forgotten notebook, dry, lonely, and sad.
Sometimes I imagine the written words when I close my eyes at night to sleep. I wrote a story about how a beautiful girl used to feel so much agony, about the war she was living behind her serene eyes. Another time, I wrote a poem about a friend who betrayed another for the sake of a fleeting moment of happiness. I wrote about a person who is losing the will to live. I write about people. People intrigue my interest. People have stories to tell and they need to be told by someone, but that someone is still not me.
I miss starting my letters with “dear” and ending them with the most beautiful closure. Instead, I am writing today “dear sir,… yours sincerely” to a boss who is impatiently waiting for a work to be done. I miss holding a laptop between my hands and dropping words from my mind on a keyboard that was only used to write research papers and work reports. I miss the feeling of this material touching the tips of my fingers, kissing them smoothly and inviting them to express freely whatever their holder feels.
“Dear notebook,” I said to myself one day. “Dear Medium readers,” I want to say starting from today.
