I was a real writer back then!

With my computer on my lap, my cats by my side, as I take a deep breath and sit down to write this article, I realize that I miss the days when I used to write without thinking about being read, just for the happiness of writing. After school, I would take my coffee with me, throw myself in my room, turn on music, light incense and candles and start writing in my diary. I remember those days like it was yesterday.

I felt like I was meeting with a secret friend. It was a period of time that belonged only to me. Happily, passionately, knowing that no one would read it, maybe even with the comfort of knowing that no one would read it, I would write in my notebooks over and over again.

I would get carried away with the sheer, aimless, crazy joy of writing. As I filled my journals, I felt like I was in a ritual. Every now and then I would look up and watch the flame of the burning candle, for example. As the smoke from the incense filled my room, with my favorite Hermann Hesse's books lying on my bed, I would smile to myself and feel like a real writer.

I realize now that I was a real writer then in a way that I am not today and perhaps never will be again, because my writing had no ulterior motive other than my love for writing. I was writing for the sheer pleasure of writing. I didn't have a reader, an editor, a publisher, an agent, a plan. It was just me and my diary.

By the way, I am not trying to say that I don't like writing now. I still love writing more than anything. I just feel that I am no longer the old me, that I have lost that spirit. I lost it the day I started to read what I wrote through the eyes of others. After I became an adult, I guess writing stopped being a ritual for me.

I know that I can't turn back time, that things are constantly changing and we are changing with them. That diaries have been replaced by blogs, blogs by Instagram and Twitter...

At least this is the case as far as I know. Maybe one day all this will be replaced by something completely different. In short, I guess no one writes for themselves, only for themselves anymore.

No, I will never get the time back. No matter how hard I try, I will never be that girl who reads Hesse. I know that. But one thing I have discovered is that he still lives somewhere inside me. Because when I started painting, he reached out his head again and said hello to me.

I started painting to take a break, to rest a little, to have some fun. I had no other goal than to amuse myself. I knew I was no good and I didn't care. I just wanted to play with colors and those beautiful brushes, just like when I was a child.

I started by laying out my canvases, paints, brushes, paper and drawing pencils on the dining table. Then I remembered the princesses, mermaids, cavemen, ghosts, vampires, cowboys, Vikings I had drawn as a child. I turned up the music, dipped my brush into the paint, my heart beating wildly with excitement, and set to work painting them. And I worked and worked for hours, without even realizing how the time had passed.

Sometimes I think that in order to find ourselves, we must first lose ourselves. And that getting lost is an art... No, getting lost is not an easy thing. It is difficult to get rid of all the questions and problems that rightly occupy one's mind for a while and immerse oneself in the game. But once you do it, once you manage to forget about the world, it feels like you can actually turn back the clock.

I have learned over the years that for me happiness is possible only when I am in contact with that girl lying on her bed, writing in her diary. Maybe painting will be replaced by other things in the future. But I know now that I will never lose that amateur spirit because I need it to feel alive. I need to do something just for myself, without the pressure to be good at what I do. To create something just because I want to, without worrying about others.

I won't be able to write my books as if I were writing in my diary. But I know that I can keep getting excited about new things as long as I live. And I can revel in the pleasure of keeping things to myself and be my own confidant. After all, we never really grow up. That child who is trying to discover the world is still somewhere inside us.