I’m not spilling any beans revealing that the lion’s share of a writer’s joy lies by no means in arranging punctuation marks or putting involute words in order by dressing them up to impress, expose or entertain, at least not in my understanding, where it’s predominantly fulfilled by protracted lingering in a bespoke brain boudoir I thought I closed the door to years ago, too tired to take on the umpteenth renovation required by yet another assignment usually fueled by someone else’s aspirations, claiming I had none of my own other than my accidental adroitness to brighten up theirs.
Another viable explanation for barricading the entrance to this imaginary retreat could be I was just bored with it, after spending years and years of my professional life hiding there, slumped on its couches while indulgently snacking on life’s nibbles, pretending to be working on something intellectually challenging and groundbreakingly engaging, ‘Yes, it will take a considerable amount of time, these creative endeavors simply do’, while in fact binge watching soap opera’s on replay, repeatedly. Whoever initiated me into the powerful perks of pretending and procrastination I’m not exactly grateful for the time wasted, but since it was undeniably me, it’s pointless to place extensive blame or regret my erroneously embraced superficiality.
Forced to deal with a growing lack of storage space, making it more difficult by the day to connect my overflow of memories with previous experiences and thus with my future references, it was no grand reopening I had in mind but a plain sailing dust-off before the final garage sale. Everything in and about my old hideout appeared very familiar, yet proved to be unexplored territory, promising infinity again by its outlook through windows I’ve never noticed before. No boxes, no stray sheets of paper filled with the short, concise sentences I was known for when still babbling in a different language, but open air to let it flow and perdurably postpone a final point.