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The Question
What’s the most meaningful thing I can write today? You know how many times I’ve asked myself that question? So much that, sometimes, I ask myself why I even ask myself. It’s a slippery slope, this game of “What’s the point?” Too easy to arrive at “There probably isn’t one” in three iterations.
I took a walk through the village. Werner drove past me, right up the hill. Same old jeep, same old Werner. Werner looked 70 when he drove his grandson around 15 years ago, and for all I know, he’s still 70 today. He’ll probably drive him around long after I’m gone. Werner. Every time I catch up with him as he parks in front of his house, he greets me, and I greet back. Without fail, he asks: “Where are you going?” “Home,” I say, “up the hill.” And every time, Werner gives the same reply: “Ahh, now I remember.” Werner.
I wonder if anyone will say that about me. “Ahh, now I remember.” I don’t really care anymore, but, sometimes, the thought still lingers. I used to care so much. Now, all I want is to be useful. To share something that helps today, not 50 years later. Most of the time, I fail in doing that also. How could I succeed if the pressure was even higher?
Maybe, I just don’t bleed enough. Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do? “Sit at a typewriter and bleed,” Hemingway said. He sure bled a lot. James Altucher spilled his guts onto his blog, apparently. Is that what…
