First memory

I want to write and I try to start writing something. Yet every time I start to write I realize I have nothing to write about. What can I write about? About my lonely nights, about the fear that I might not ever find you? Find what? Have I lost something? Do I have something to find? What if I don’t have to find anything? What if you were there all along but I never knew? What if I don’t need any man to be happy? What if I can be happy by myself? Than what can I write about? If there are no lonely nights, no cool winds, no shining moon?

Go deeper, I say to myself. Go deeper where? Go deeper to the depths of the earth, to the souls of men and you will have something to write about.

Like that would be easy. Well it’s not. I still don’t know what I want and what I would like to write about. And yet there is so much more. First of all there’s us. There is always us. Rely on yourself if you want to do something or write something. What do we have? Memories. A man is made of his memories. And there is the memory of a nightwish, the memory of laughter, the memory of a party. And you were there two. All of you. And suddenly I am alive again. Photos, many photos and joy. So I remember. And I write and this was a birthday party. Perhaps the first birthday we spent together. And the first memory that I put on words.