I never read much of my contemporaries’ writings. Not that I don’t want to, I just never feel drawn in. I never feel I can relate. I now realize the condescending sound of it. Maybe I should read more. But somehow, I never have the time for it. Who has the time nowadays? Lucky me, though, two of my best friends, are amazing writers. Still young, never published, but I swear, when you look at them, their soul just screams out “a writer”. They sometimes don’t believe they are though, maybe even most times they don’t. You could see their eyes smiling in doubt when sharing their work. But when they are in their writer aura, finding themselves in front of a bookshelf in an old thrift store, cleaning out the dust of an old novel and telling you the whole biography of this author you’ve never heard of, cherishing his work like no one ever did before, life just suddenly is given another meaning. Or when you see them writing, choosing their words so carefully, playing around with their style while passing through all their levels of insecurity and vulnerability, grasping peculiar moments of life in the most meticulous way, and you get to see their true nature pouring out of them in a form of a poem or a story, allowing the risk of showing their fragile, genuine heart. All else then, starts to seem so much deeper, so much truer. You start to understand, too. You start to love life again, through them, in that moment, you start to love you too.
