Late one evening, just last week, I found myself pondering over the meaning of life. It’s something I have grown accustomed to over the years; although something I have done much more during the last few years. I think the older we become, the more time we spend reflecting on the past. It’s all quite logical really though. I mean, the younger we are, the less past we have and the older we become, the more we realize it was the past that turned us into who we became.
We divide the past up into good moments and bad, remember great romances and lost loves, friends and family departed, our childhood, teens and adulthood. We see the choices we never took and ponder over how things would be today had we stopped to think before moving along the first road we saw. Even if in our hearts, we know the road we travel today is a good one, we cannot help but wonder where that other one might have taken us.
Perhaps I am only speaking for myself. Maybe we don’t all sit and ponder as I do. Possibly it’s just the author blood that courses through my veins at break-neck speed, causing me to ponder so. I do know that much of what I write has a base in my past. I may change the storyline, the characters, omit or add certain events in order to give the scene credibility, although the base sits in my past.
Ever since the age of fifteen when I taught myself to read and write, the written word has been my master. I don’t have a cruel and ruthless master. Quite the opposite, I have a compassionate and giving master. As long as I do my job, my master is happy with me.
I am sure the previous sentence leaves you wondering if I am truly sane. Well, who knows? Are any of us really sane? If sane is living in a world without hopes and dreams, without a heart that beats with intensity for everything about us, then I am happy to be insane.
I have sacrificed a lot though, given up many things in order to appease my master. During my teens I witnessed more than many might in a lifetime. Then I came to Sweden and up until I was about thirty, I still lived somewhat on the wild side. I wasn’t happy though. When I look back over the years, see the things I have done, the people who I hurt, the drinking and the partying… I wasn’t happy. I was quite simply going through the motions, playing a role that didn’t really suit me at all. How I managed to keep writing and working at the same time as the drinking and the partying, I really do not know.
Things are different now though. Have I really matured enough to see the error of my ways or have I quite simply become a devout servant of my ever-loving master? Apart from the thirty-one days in America last year, I have been to a party just once since 2007. I am somewhat a recluse, closing myself off from the outside world in order to serve my master. My idea of fun is sitting at a café with a pen and paper, possibly my laptop, just writing.
I bet you were wondering why I chose such an odd title for this post. It took a while to get there, but yes, this post is going to be about my search for that special café.
Well, my next post is …
But until then…