1:00 a.m. — Mon 19 Oct, 2020
It takes time fo a writer to become. Some are mature authors at a very young age, others spend their entire lives getting there and never arrive. I have all the machinery in place to be a good writer, I have known this for a long time. But there is something missing: the ingredient of motivation. I have spent my adult life searching for that motivation. When I met L. I thought that finally I had found it. I felt the passion to write. I felt ambition, I sensed the possibilities—and it terrified me. Only recently, I learned that it is often a lack of place, origin—home—that leads to the creation of a writer. And the search for home drives them. The thing is, home is not a place. It is Another who accepts you for all that you are, good and bad. Briefly, very briefly, I found that home in L. But deep down I have always believed that I was not deserving, and so I sabotaged our home, our relationship. Us. And I returned to my homeless state, saying to myself: see, it was not meant to be. No one can love you, you do not deserve to have a home. You do not deserve love. This is who you are. A searcher, never finding. Home is where the heart finds acceptance. But if you do not have the capacity to open your heart, what then? What then?