I love quotes. Maximes. The idea that one can capture life in a sentence. A handfull of words. It thrills me. The simplicity and beauty.
Life is rarely simple. Neither is it always beautiful.
Someone once said that the only reason for being a writer is if you have no other choice.
But how is anyone to know that? There are always choices. From getting out of bed in the morning, having butter or apple sauce on your morning porrige to what to do with this relentless, undefined longing. Some are small, others huge as mountains, but they all mean taking one more step on the path of life. Some choices take unpredicted turns. It’s not always easy to know where a particular choice might lead.
You can choose not to write. You can choose to stop eating. To stop eating won’t make you happier, but it is a choice.
And I wonder, would writing make me happier? Did I make the wrong choice somewhere? Would it be possible for me to make that choice again, make it different – or is it too late?
Katja Malmborg 