am i a writer now?

The moment you start writing, you're a writer. The moment you stop smoking, you're no longer a smoker.

If this is true, that means I'm a writer now.

I will write some more words and share them.

Vincent Van Gogh, he hangs on my wall and stares at me. With his one googly eye. I allow him to distract me. There's distractions everywhere. During these few sentences I've already had to surpress several urges to do some crtl + t and go to facebook. Probably means I should delete myself from it. Make space for new things.

I did it.

One less distraction. I removed myself from the facebook without being completely sure of it. My heart was pounding while my head was realizing. Cutting myself of from a lot of persons.

To most of them I never talked anyway and never would again even if I kept it. Probably. Can't say for sure. It was reassuring to know that they were there. They're still there. I'm not anymore.

The urge is still present, to go to that feed and scroll down forever and ever. How much time did I waste while drowning in this feed? How many times did I give in to this disappearing without knowing?

The urge will disappear. In time.

I need to regain my focus.

I have fourteen days to change my mind. I can still un-delete myself.

The world's furnished to steal my focus. This world is built on attention. It doesn't seem that focus and attention belongs to the person itself anymore.

No.

My attention, my focus, my brain, it's no longer completely mine.

They are fighting over it. They are all fighting over my attention, my time. When I go to the supermarket. When I enter the train station. When I grab my phone. When I open my laptop.

And it was so easy for them to still my attention, because I didn't know they were after it. I was not aware enough to realize what they were taking from me.

It's time to take back what's mine. It's probably not going to be easy, but that's okay. I've had a too easy life so far anyway. And now it's time to train my brain.

Just like Vincent did. He painted and painted and painted and painted. I recall that he wasn't even that good in the beginning. He just didn't give up. He kept on painting.

Once I saw a series about him. The presenter of the series tried to crawl into the skin of Vincent. He read letters from him, to him, about him. He visited the places where Vincent had lived. He walked the same walks.

Once, the presenter dragged himself up the mountain hill. He was sweating, panting, carrying some heavy books with him. All while imagining that Vincent had done the same, day after day, over a hundred years ago. With his easel, his paintings, his canvas and whatever a painter needs to paint outside.

I don't remember much about the series, what I wrote here is about what I remember from it. And some more if I really try. Hope I didn't distort much.

What I remember the most is how, at the end of the series, the presenter was overwhelmed by his own emotions. He was crying for Vincent, for his sad life and his pain and his loneliness. I myself was overwhelmed by this compassion and it still passes my mind every now and then.

Vincent only painted for ten years. Imagine what a person could achieve.

No facebook means I've got more time to stare at Vincent.