Each night, as I sit to write, something always comes out. Isn’t that strange. I’ve never not been able to write so far. There’s always something to write.
The year was 2017 and now it’s 2026. I’ve been writing regularly for nine years now. On and off. Mostly on though. I’ve got two published poetry books. Besides that, more than thousand poems scattered here and there. And still, as I sit to type, something always comes out on the paper. I find it quite strange.
Sometimes I wonder from where all of this comes, the things that I write. Personal experiences of course. But it isn’t just that. I believe one must get out there and put himself in all kinds of situations. It demands certain courage and not just that. It demands a certain level of madness too. Were I not a bit mad, I’d just stay indoors and eat and sleep and one day, die. But I don’t want that. I want conversations, experiences, challenges. I want to earn a good long sleep.
But not each day goes in the way in which I want it to go. Most days are spent doing slave work. It hurts. Hurts a lot! But such is the situation sometimes. One’s got to do stuff to get money so that one may live a little of the life that one wants to live. And one does all of this while getting hurt. Absurd but true. Life is absurd. Is it so difficult to live the kind of life that one wants to live everyday?
I don’t know. I cannot say much about that. I believe that life is to be lived well, and it is to be lived so despite failures and successes.
But why am I suddenly talking about life. I was talking about my writing journey and suddenly I started talking about life. I think that such is life. It seeps into everything, into all the aspects. Life is one and whole and should be lived so.
– Tomic
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