Actually life is beautiful and I do have time

I often think about what I will regret most in the future. Thoughts creep in, reminding me of what I already regret now. Most likely, I will regret things I can’t even name yet. Still, having rubbed against this world for more than a few years, one thing is clear: people regret what they keep postponing. Until one day they decide never to do it at all. Few admit they were afraid. “I didn’t have time,” they say.

Over the past six months, I haven’t written a single decent text. Even when the “right” sentences woke me in the middle of the night, by morning I regretted getting up and typing another piece of nonsense into my phone—something I never used anywhere. In almost all of those written texts, I tried to prove my truths and teach people how to live. And those are exactly the kind of people I hate the most.

Partly, I know why I’ve been sharing so little lately. It’s scary to name it, because it feels like once you admit it, everything starts to change.

Exactly a year ago, my days and nights were drowned in the sentences of a new book. When I reached the halfway point, I complained to a friend that the only thing missing for complete creative happiness was for someone to enter my life and hurt me. I remember the way he looked at me—thinking I’d lost my mind. But those who write will understand. A creator waits for some unnamed suffering as if for a muse. And joy drives that muse away. My wish came true in the strangest possible ways.

I lived in the most beautiful city in the world, where there wasn’t a single night I fell asleep without being held. I gave interviews to magazines, radio, television, talking about how happy and fulfilled I was, listing everything I had. And yet I felt ashamed—because having everything, the one thing I didn’t have was happy time. Not the kind of time where you can read, cook, or occupy yourself with simple things. And if once I thought this was what the fulfillment of my dreams should sound like, it turned out to be my worst nightmare. Like standing in front of a mirror, seeing a perfect reflection, and wanting to cry. As if I were dressed in clothes too small. As if I were wearing shoes several sizes too tight. No wonder the pages of the book seemed to write themselves then.

That you are unhappy is proven by a few factors, and they are almost always the same for everyone:

you start buying things you don’t need,

and

other people’s happiness begins to irritate you—so much that slowly you start to hate happy people.

That’s exactly what happened to me half a year ago. And when I caught myself by the collar, matching every single one of those points (because it had happened many times before and will most likely happen again), I knew—it was time.

It’s not true that you can’t run away from your suffering. Those who try to prove that probably never tried to run at all. Suffering today is considered a noble achievement, and many cling to this trophy. As if boasting about being constantly exhausted proves how successful you are. When I began hearing similar praise coming from my own mouth, I realized I had reached a stage I was never meant to return to.

I managed to escape every time. But preparing for escape is the longest stage of all.

Each of us knows the things that heal us. That comfort us more than any friend or therapist ever could. I remember landing at an airport in the middle of the night, buried in desert sand, then shaking for hours in a barely moving Ford—just so that in the morning I could smell it, hear the water crashing against coastal rocks. I deliberately left the curtains half open so I would wake up to that view and that whisper. Some crumbs of pain remain, but different winds scatter them quickly. New horizons cover old memories. What matters is that they are not like the ones you once stared at, and yet never became happy.

“I won’t do this again,” I whispered like an apology, watching the blue of the sky blend with the ocean and remembering the months that had passed so painfully. Life is beautiful, and I have time. I still have time.

The magic spell worked. God must have been online that day. And from that moment until today—not a single decent text has been written.

I don’t think this one is special either. But for a while now, I no longer buy things I don’t need, and it feels good to see people who are happy and successful. That’s probably why I lived through the best summer, autumn, and now winter. I had time. I have it. And if fate remains generous—I will continue to have it.

I walk along different coastlines and tease my editor to give me work. She, as if knowing, postpones it and leaves me here to rest on these shores. I understand perfectly well that these rosy times will end. Then fate will blow reasons to write back into my life. I’ll start buying unnecessary things, dreaming of career heights, envying those who are doing better. And I’ll keep spinning that wheel of life so that when I grow old, the one thing I won’t regret is not having tried. After trying—to stay, to run. After excessive workloads—to keep time for myself. After books, notebooks, Word files filled to the brim—to try and no longer write anything good. Strange, but comforting, to know that everything in life is just a sequence of stages that change faster than you can prepare for them. But now—it feels good to miss creativity. Because once, while creating, I longed for the life I am living now.

So—is it better to be happy or to be creative?

Answer that, Hamlet.

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