If writing has taught me anything, it has taught me that I’m no storyteller. Isn’t that weird? Isn’t it important to have storytelling abilities if you want to become a writer?

Yup… show ’em how it’s done li’l fourth-grader!

But in some odd way I still manage to come up with things people “like”. It’s difficult to understand why exactly. I’m not funny either. Maybe it’s my award-winning smile.

Is this unhealthy? As unhealthy as my book-devouring? Funny isn’t it? How almost all of us seem to have some sort of addiction. Are addictions necessary for survival? Sometimes I think it is. I think we simply can’t help it. Some are unfortunate and end up in the sea of alcohol or the desert of drugs, whilst nerds like me take refuge in books. But one way or the other, almost all of us develop an addiction.

Maybe addiction is related to passion somehow. Because we all need passion in life. Something that feels more than other things. Something that makes us feel alive. A colorful spot on the black-and-white painting. It’s like summer in my part of the world – it doesn’t come often but once it does it’s impossible to feel miserable (we suffer from vitamin D-withdrawal all year and then all of a sudden get a high dose of it).

Picture credit: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/writing/images/27456811/title/writing-photo

The addiction is our energy source. Yeah sure… there are artists out there who use drugs to create their masterpieces. But depending on a bad energy source leads to a horrible fate, even if it helps you momentarily. Kind of like the use of fossil fuel for our cars – it gets us where we want to go, whilst slowly killing the environment.

It puzzles me whenever I see people without passion for anything (deliberately leaving out the word “addiction” here). There are those who are passionate about life in general, and that is also a “legitimate” passion. But what of those who still haven’t found anything… or who don’t even know the importance of having something? How… bland. Like losing your focus and only having a peripheric image of life. Or maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe that’s how it feels for me specifically because I have never been without it – and that I can’t imagine life without it (kind of the way you feel when you’re newly in love… only that for me and reading/writing, that feeling has never disappeared).

What do You think?