Things I Chased, Things I Found, and Things That Just Sat There Flickering
Some mornings, I sit at the edge of the bed and forget why I stood up.
Other days, I remember far too much.
Apparently, it’s best if I stay out of the kitchen, off the shopping list, and away from the fridge. I’ve been gently retired from being “helpful” and nudged into a less interfering version of myself.
“Just relax,” my wife says.
Which is family code for: Go sit somewhere and don’t touch anything.
So now, I’ve been promoted to the dignified role of man in the corner. My kingdom consists of an old rickety chair, a chipped coffee mug, and a laptop that processes thoughts slightly slower than I do… which is quite a feat, honestly.
But don’t feel bad for me. There’s a quiet freedom in this new invisibility. Nobody expects anything. Nobody interrupts. I’m free to sit.
And read. And think. And write.
Mostly half of each.
Books used to be my escape. Now they’re more like short weekend flings.
I dive in, brimming with excitement, then drift off by chapter two like my internet connection—eager, then completely unreliable. Not because the books are bad, mind you. My attention span has evolved… in reverse.
So the books pile up. Half-read. Dog-eared in shame.
My bedside table now resembles a library that had a nervous breakdown.
I no longer buy new ones. I’ve learned to walk past bookshops like a recovering sugar addict near a cake shop. The temptation to start is strong. The follow-through? Somewhere between tragic and comic.
And yet… I write.
Not because I have answers. But because I like lighting little lanterns of thought and sending them into the world, hoping someone sees the flicker and smiles.
Which brings me to the age-old question:
Who decides what’s worth reading—the writer or the reader?
Honestly, if it were up to me, my grocery list would’ve been a bestseller by now. I mean, “Pasta, tomatoes, and a cheese that cost more than my first mobile phone.”… that’s practically literary minimalism.
I light the lantern with all the hope in the world… and sometimes, people walk right past it, politely pretending they didn’t notice the glow.
It’s okay. I’ve done it too.
But that’s the beauty of it.
It’s a dance. A slightly clumsy one… where the writer steps on the reader’s toes until, somehow, something clicks. And for a moment, we move in sync.
What begins as a whisper in the writer’s head only becomes worth reading when it hums in someone else’s heart.
And if it doesn’t?
Well… at least I enjoyed the music.
You see, all my life, I’ve been reaching for somebody else’s star.
The kind that dazzles from far away but up close just makes you tired.
A job title. A life goal. A version of success that fits other people better.
Like a borrowed coat—stylish, expensive, but just not me.
I didn’t always realise it. I was too busy chasing what I thought I should want.
Too busy trying to be the strongest, the smartest, the most whatever.
But then one day, while sitting exactly where I am now, I remembered something a very old man once said. Not my grandfather, although he also may have had some legendary one-liners.
No—this was a different old man. A rather famous one.
Name of Charles Darwin.
He said:
“It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent. It is the one most adaptable to change.”
And just like that, I forgave myself for evolving into the man in the corner.
Adapting, after all, is not a weakness. It’s a talent.
And frankly, I’ve been adapting like a champ… into slower mornings, half-read books, and stories nobody asked for but that I feel oddly compelled to tell.
Because now, here in my quiet little corner… armed with a temperamental laptop and a cup of tea that never stays hot—I write.
For joy.
For memory.
For mischief.
And that, surprisingly, feels like reaching for my star.
Not impressive. Not ambitious. Just honest.
Some of it might never be read.
Some of it might make someone chuckle during an office lunch break or feel a small ache behind their smile.
And that’s enough.
Because stars, I’ve learned, don’t always need to be caught.
They just need to be reached for.
Even if, now and then, they turn out to be lightbulbs in disguise.
WORDSOUPS 