Passion vs Obligation
One of the main reasons I decided that I’d never become a journalist - on my freshman year at High School - was that I always found it a bit boring writing about things that happened without place for imagination. I’d always say that creativity is my biggest quality, and I treasure it a lot. Here I am, some ten years later, writing about facts. And I still find it a bit boring. Whenever I can I transform my texts into a crossover of fact and philosophy, a bit academic, if you will. I believe it increases the text quality and, more important than that, avoid me form dying from tedious and disgust. Now, I’m not saying I don’t like my job. I like it. It’s just that, sometimes, I really hate it. It’s like a never-ending trap. It steals my stamina, and my will to write fiction. I need the work, for I need the money. I need the fiction, because it is my life. A life without fiction is, for me, a live half-lived. A waste. So, there are days in which I read my texts talking about what the children did I and wonder if I’m wasting my talent into something that is worthless. No one needs talent to talk about facts, just hard work and good grammar. Also, being an obligation, means you never get the “I understand it’s not a writing day” thing. It seems amazing, but that’s the easiest way to get a writers block. All the information is blocked. It doesn’t reach you or get shaped into something that resembles a text. It feels forced, awful, painful, for you have to deliver it even if every cell in your body says “do not write”. And, yet, you have to and you do. It’s exhausting, and not in the adrenaline ridden, emotional storm of the fiction. It just leaves you empty. Shapeless. Wordless. Strangled. This is not the dream.




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