Why would anyone give up hours, days, weeks, months of life in this marvelous and giddy world to lock himself in a room and stain white paper with black ink to try to make colorful thoughts?
Why would anyone fill with words pages that might end up becoming only a stack of love letters never sent, yellowing in a shadowy drawer?
Why would anyone chose the labyrinthine path of the writer, going through dark forests of uncertainty and barren valleys of self-doubt, when he could instead prefer the well-trodden road of the teacher, or of the librarian, or of the carpenter?
Why would anyone want to dream beautiful lies instead of living sober truths?
Why does the sun rise every day morning?
I don’t have answers to any of these questions, but maybe you do?