Why do we stop doing the things we love?

Today I talked to someone who I haven’t talked to for a little short of two years. For a short period of time, this person was very important to me. But then it just got cut off, from one minute to the other.

Two years passed by, and just as suddenly we once again talked. Which was surprising in itself alone, but what was more important is one of the first subjects they commented on:

“I thought you would have become a writer by now.”

Two years ago, there was one person, who knew how much I loved writing, and despite not talking, it was one of the first things on their mind when thinking about me.

That just hit some spot. Two years ago, right at that time, there were a lot of big changes in my life. Some that back then didn’t seem that important, some that were huge from the first second, and some that I’m very conflicted about right now. But one of them is that 2 years ago I was still writing. Properly. I might not have been very public about it, didn’t post my work anywhere but I was constantly typing away.

Boring day at work? Very_important_work_stuff.docx was always there, with all my ideas.

Commute to work or school? My trusty little notebook was full of practice drafts and timelines.

Sadness? Let’s write the most heartfelt scene you could dream of.

Happy as a clam? Joyfulness poured on paper.

Then it just stopped.

A lot of other things came in my life, and that was also the time when I started to neglect the blog as well.

If I had continued, maybe, just maybe I’d have actually written a book by now. And I’m not saying this with regret, just with some factualization. It is true. Something that was so fundamental to me went out the window, without me noticing for almost two years.

So what could make me, or anyone for that matter, stop doing something from one second to the other? Was it me starting a new job? Was it the many new impulses that came with all the changes of my life at that point?

I know that this hobby of mine survived my childhood, survived being a teenager and then, at 23 years old it was gone. I thought I had improved in those last 2 years, I thought I have grown. And it is all true in a sense. Many things I had before or was before, I’m not missing now. Being weak is not something I miss. Neither is being a pushover or simply being so naïve about the World.

But I just now realized that important parts are gone too. And I can’t fathom how and why did I lose them.

I’ve always wanted to write a book, I just stopped working on it. Even in these 2 years I had that goal in my mind, but just having the goal is not enough. And this was a goal that someone else actually believed that I could reach. That baffles me the most, in a great way, but still does.

I never really realised how much we can really lose ourselves in the process of trying to be better. With all the best intentions in the World, everything can go so wrong, just because you weren’t paying attention to the right details. And realising this after 2 years is a luxury. I can still pick up where I left off. Might even have new ideas thanks to these two years, actually so many new ideas. But what if there are other pieces missing too? What if there are other things that I have completely forgotten? It’s a strange feeling, they always tell you to go forward, to build with new blocks. But now, what if there is a piece that I thought was unnecessary when actually it is something that I shouldn’t have scrapped in the first place? Are we allowed to do that? To reach back and put back a piece? Is there even a spot to fit it anymore?

Well, I’ll sure as hell try.

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