I have this voice inside of me. „Write“, it says. Repeatedly. Constantly. Firmly. It’s a calm voice and it doesn’t say much. Not now, not ever. Just this one word: „Write.“ I’ve heard it a thousand times. This voice, saying this word. And I know that it’s right. I should write. And I want to write. Sometimes that’s the only thing I know for sure.
But then life happens. Or at least all the things that accumulate to something I tend to call life. All the people to meet, all the places to go to, all the things to take care of. And I get overwhelmed. Because I always feel like I’m behind, like I constantly have to catch up on something or with someone, but can’t, because there’s just never enough time. So I’m paralyzed and lost and torn between all of these people, places and things that accumulate to something I tend to call life. That’s when the voice comes again. „Write“, it says. And I hear it for the thousand and first time. This voice, saying this word. And I know that it’s right. But then I move on to being busy, putting it off one more time, writing nothing but to-do-lists and schedules. Because that’s what’s important, right? That’s what matters. Focus. Plan. Go. Do. Maybe then, once I’ve met everyone, been everywhere, done everything, maybe then I can take a little break and write. I’ll put it in on the bottom of my to-do-list and see if there’s a gap somewhere in my schedule. But the truth is that this point will never come. And all the words I put aside will be lost forever, never to be written, never to be read.
But then again, what’s the harm in that? Who cares, anyways? Who needs the words that I write? Who, except for that voice inside of me? And what’s there to write about, even? All these questions only show that I have already lost part of it. Part of the connection to that inner voice, the connection to my writing. That I have already let my mind turn it into something that it was never intended to be: one of these things that accumulate to something that I tend to call life. One of these things that just have to be done for some reason. But every time I write in order to serve some sort of future purpose, I miss the point and loose the joy of it. Only if I write for the sake of writing, I can fully dive in, loose myself in the process and find myself through my words. Only if I don’t seek to go anywhere, it can lead me to where I’m supposed to be. And maybe that’s nowhere. And maybe that’s everywhere. But either way, I’ll get there. One word at at time. One letter after the other. It will come. Whatever it is.
But sometimes I can’t do that. Because my mind won’t let me. Because it needs to know all the „whats“ and „hows“ and „whys“ before it allows me to act. And that’s when the voice disappears. Because it doesn’t have the answer to any of these questions. And it has no interest in arguing about them with my calculating mind. It doesn’t want me to wait and evaluate and plan. It doesn’t need me to know where I’m going, what the page is going to be filled with, how the story is going to end. It never tells me any of that. All it says is this one word: „Write.“ But there’s no point in talking to someone who has been deprived of the right to listen. And since my mind won’t let me, the voice stops and leaves me and my calculating mind alone to do our thing. To plan and rush and run without ever getting anywhere, really.
Until I get so tired of all of this that I will finally force my mind to step back and allow myself to listen. To listen to that voice and what it says. And then, without asking questions, without looking for results or wanting to know the outcome, I will sit down, take my pen and notebook and write. The voice will know what about. Because it’s the voice of my heart. And the heart always knows, somehow. If only we manage to listen. Not with our ears, because they won’t hear. Not with our minds, because they won’t understand. But with our souls, because then we will feel. And ultimately, that’s what life is.