You don’t magically find your passion, you come back to it through memories
A simple insight into how to feel alive again
The other day, I reached out for a book. I sat down on the couch, took a sip of my hot, filtered coffee, and opened it.
By instinct, I buried my head into a random page to breathe it in.
Recycled paper. My favorite kind.
My fingers traced the page, feeling the gentle print of words on paper.
Smell and touch open doors to memories. They teleport us to places we thought we had long forgotten.
As a little kid, 4–6 years old, I spent whole days with my grandma at a little red kiosk selling magazines and tobacco.
I remember sorting tobacco packets in rows and devouring words in all magazines I could get my hands on. Magazines would come in huge blocks bound by plain brown twine every morning.
Every time I open a book, I am taken back to that red kiosk.
A place where I acquired a special appreciation for printed paper.
For the words that touch by painting pictures. For the rhythmic structure of sentences that make my heart dance. For stories that are impossible to put down.
There is a magical time in our lives when play show us who we are. Just for a little while until we are old enough to unlearn it all.
We set out on a journey of detours that give us little cues to where we really belong.
Through writing words, I am following the breadcrumbs and finding my way back to the red kiosk.
Where is your home?
