Writing about life is weird.

You’re always interpreting, at best.

Using words as the least crude way to pin down what is ultimately fleeting and extremely personal.

You’re always too late, always biased, always limited.

Whatever you write is never exactly what you write about, and most of the time it doesn’t even come close.

It’s a translation, a filter, an opinionated observation.

It’s an attempt.

And at the same time, your writing about life IS life itself.

It’s life talking about life, trying to capture life.

Using a unique perspective, a personal view.

Not bothered by the sheer impossibility of the endeavor.

Writing about life is like solving a puzzle in real-time, without knowing what it’s supposed to look like.

The result can be truly amazing and captivating.

But it’s still just words.

It’s never the thing.

Words are not it, and yet they are made of it.

Made of life.

Life is words.

And the absence of words.

Writing about life is useless if you’d like it to be accurate.

And it’s also essential, because, well, here it is.

This blog IS life.

Not complete, not absolute, not even close.

But here it is anyway.

(Photo by @heftiba, for Unsplash)

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