Writing, for me

I started writing talking about technology. I found a world waiting for me that I always wanted to know. I thought I was on top of the world. And instead here I am, thinking about something completely different.

Since I started writing, I found writing as a way to vent without really doing it. I miss it so much, doing it by putting myself into the story.

Now I haven’t done it for a long time.

Maybe that’s why I feel empty.

I feel like there is always a little piece of me missing, which doesn’t make me happy as I was before, even when I had much less.

Now I have a fabulous job, a stable life, but also many ‘grown-up’ problems.

I don’t know if it changes anything that these ‘grown-up’ problems are more complex and include more people and with more experience in fields I don’t know at all. What changes, however, is the fact that I feel less and less able to tell them to myself as if they were stories, which usually I would have told others.

I always liked telling stories because it was my way of demystifying past problems.

But now these problems, the ‘grown-up’ ones indeed, are so complex that I would take hours to reconstruct everything. I did a pilot project, but it was the only one. Then there were glimpses, even recent ones, but I never knew how to give continuity to my thoughts again. I envy and respect what Riccardo Palombo is doing with his Pressappoco, which is exactly what I had in mind with Zibaldone. A cauldron without interruption on my flow of thoughts. Which yes, would have been public, but whose purpose should never have been to attract an audience, but to make my thoughts transparent to everyone, and therefore also to me as a consequence. Public, so as to make them indelible.

The reason why I started writing is also because I didn’t know how to speak.

And still I am not capable.

I often face discussions via message, even if now I believe I have improved, because with words, those spoken and not written, I am just not good.

I believe that the tapping of the keyboard favors the flow of my thoughts, boh, I wouldn’t know.

Or maybe the fact that when I write, unless I am in a chat, I am not really talking to anyone. Anyway, even in a chat, until I press enter, I am only talking to myself.