Someday, I will be fifty
Someday, I will be fifty, and all the words I would've written by then will finally make sense.
All the stories that I left inconclusive, or for which I had to invent makeshift endings, will finally reach satisfying conclusions. All the concepts that I vehemently expanded on to find some ounces of truth, all the opinions that I kept rejecting knowing they weren't mine, all the philosophical routes that I took not caring about where they would lead me, will finally come together and form a few passages that I would proudly call mine, truly mine, without any splashes of anyone else.
I would've finally controlled my urge to go a little extra and learned to be succinct. I would've closed the doors I opened in the process of exploration, particularly the ones that led to dark rooms, especially the ones that led to excessively bright rooms. I would've found ways to mend my heart, heal from the heartbreaks that my dearest incomplete ideas gave me over time. I would've made sense of my madness, these crazy ideas that threatened me, delighted me, took me on insane adventures, kept me awake and going for weeks and months at a go. I would've finally understood what readers want.
Until then, I'll keep going. I'll keep the words flowing. I'll write so much that I can't catch up with editing them. I'll publish so much that it gets difficult for me to keep track of them. I'll create so much that I keep getting empty and have to pour myself some life, again and again and again. I'll live a thousand lives, until I find the one that I am living.
Someday, I'll be fifty, and I'll finally call myself a writer, knowing that I'm truly one.