I want to be a writer

My attempt to tell stories about snowman who has fallen in love with the sun (as absurd as it might sound), my attempt to document the days of this love story and share with the world perhaps one of the most beautiful and devastating love stories has been everything else than a success. To undress this story and put everything into simple words that we all are able to understand and comprehend: He moved to Brussels three weeks ago, he left Croatia, his parents, his friends, he left the city where he had lived for twenty-eight years to move across Europe to be closer to me. Hundreds of job applications (I know it sounds so unromantic, maybe I am better off telling the stories about the stars and boats and oceans) were sent to people who never replied back. Well that is an over exaggeration because some employers were kind enough to answer and tell him that although his CV and application looks great, there were several good applications and unfortunately at this time he was not short-listed. I sent him an email over and over again, telling him I am too sad too lonely too miserable and I had good friends in the Hague who tried to cheer me up and said that Nitin everything is alright, he will move to Brussels soon and things will be better. And oh how I could not stop thinking how this all reminded me of the past when I was in the United States and the people closest to kept saying over and over again that everything is alright, he will move to Canada and in the end I was too depressed, clinically depressed, to cope with life and I had to pack up my one suitcase that I had and move to Croatia, to be closer to him. And yet when I look at the things a year back, I feel like we made no progress, that the snowman is further away from the sun than a year ago and we go around this vicious circle in which our paths never cross because we go a circle, there is no intersection. 

I wish I could tell everything I wish I could start writing again and this has been my problem for several months I complain about how I never write whenever I get the slightest chance to write and I want to tell you everything and I want you to comfort me and I want you to tell me Nitin, you write beautifully, Nitin this and that and those words from the strangers who follow your life out of curiosity and somehow somewhat become your friends, friends that you never meet and you still feel like they are everything you are looking for in a friend. New Year's Eve is coming up and it has been two years since I wrote a story of any kind and I am worried that I have lost all my talent, my ability to tell human beings about falling in love with someone who would fall in love with you, because my life has became too concrete, too literal, too actual and words simply make no sense, written words bare nothing else than fiction, utter fiction.

And yet everything what I have written now conveys more emotions than I could simply describe with spoken words... Stories, sentences, dots, birds and written alphabets used to be my friends that would backstab me in the end. And even though that all happened, they are still my friends and I miss them. I wanted to be a writer. And I still want to be.