Here and now (An original small essay)

Many people believe that their best time was during their childhood. Well, at the age of nine, I was, perhaps, happy, because I managed to do all the homework in school, and, on coming home, I played until the dusk with the neighboring boys. In the evening, coming home, after the mother's shout from the balcony, I ate absolutely everything on the plate and did not gain an ounce.

Yet that was before I realized who I was. I did not feel the invisible armature, from which the great invisible weaved my interests and desires. (Girls do not count).
No, I'm not an exceptional talent or an unrecognized genius. Yet I was conceived and executed in the material with the purpose of writing in a way a mallet is made with the purpose of hammering nails. Of course, it is also possible to hammer nails with a laser, but its real purpose is to focus light.

For me, writing is the same work as any other. Yet, if I manage to put the word in a phrase, so that it keeps there without putty, and one cannot squeeze it out of there using the pressure from the finger alone, I get a voluptuous pleasure.

My life has developed, obeying pattern alien to me. One thing followed another, and a stupid survival did not allow me to do what I wanted.

Only here and now, and surprisingly only for me, is the best and brightest time descend on me. Of course, in this light, there are halftones, darkness, and prominences. Yet this is mine, like a piece of cake, which you’ve been salivating on the plate for a long time, and which, in the end, got to you.