Half of my life, I’ve been dreaming to matter. I’ve been searching ways to find my place in this world. I already know what I want but not the ways to get there. An evident vision of myself years from now has been very vivid in my head all throughout; living in my transparent glass walled two-storey house with furniture of high class and quality, sitting in front of my computer with a view of the greenery of my own garden as I try to squeeze my brain cells for juicy stories and lying on hammock or lingering on my veranda as a form of relaxation. And readers from all over the world will find my writings magnificently chiselled as much as of John Green’s.
Will I ever get there? Signing contracts for publishing house, seeing my books on shelves of bookstores as I trace their spines with my trembling fingertips (and even signing autographs for my books, wildest dream) and interactions with my readers.
I know it isn’t easy to get there. Failures and rejections will be rampant and in their utmost availability. Breakdown, insecurities, criticisms and low esteem will also play huge and vital roles in the equation of my success but I am willing to risk it all, for my dreams. Admittedly, I am afraid of failure as much as I feared what comes after death but I am not going to allow this awe to succumb me.
I want to matter. It may sound simple but it contains a wide range of complexity. The shore of my knowledge ebbed with the idea that prominence sounds cool and great but I don’t want a high amount of popularity just to matter in this world. What I wanted is for my thoughts to be heard, my words to be read and for my stories and experiences to be published to inspire. I want to move peoples’ hearts with my writings and they’ll tell ‘This book is worth the read’; it will be the compliment and appraisal I will ever have in my whole goddamn life.
Again, I still have a lot to improve when it comes to my writing skills; grammatical errors are extensive, my manner of playing with words is still not in the verge of passable way to get a publishing house. It will take a long time. But I’m open for improvement; I’m willing to learn just like the very first time ii hold my rust brown guitar on my hands when I was 16.
As of the moment, I don’t have many readers the way other writers have. My number one fan and reader is my best friend. She believes in me, my words and writings as much as a kid believes in her father to catch her after throwing her up in thin air. But who knows, maybe, someday, a guy writing these stupid words from a small town already matters to the world and people speak of his name with high regards and reverence.