When a writer becomes an observer. A writer must be an observer, that is definite. But when a writer has observed so much that one becomes lost for words. What then?
When the beauty of solitude once seemed poetic and what, oh what could a writer give to feel the beauty of the darkness that Herman Hesse once felt.
A writers heart is as powerful as it can be, but the writers underestimate its power.
As once the life of the Steppenwolf had seemed idyllic, becoming one is rather sad. And all a writer does – observe.

And here I am. Once a writer-wanna-be, living the lives of my dreamy characters, I gave my essence to them and lost my soul in between Camus “Outsider” and Sartre’s “Nausea”. Trying to find my passion by playing “the glass bead game”. Got lost in the search for beauty in the darkness and hope that these few years, lost in translation in my own language, is necessary in order to achieve greatness. The weight of existence been too much for the Bluebird. Hopefully, Bluebird once will be able to fly.


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