Chapter 2: Nostalgia

It hadn't always been that way. Not so long ago, things were different. He used to write back then. Sometimes he would write in the morning, while having breakfast at a cafe. Sometimes he would write in the afternoon, often sitting outside under the sun. And sometimes he would write at night, all the way till dawn, sitting at his desk at home while the outside world slept. But that was a while ago and it seemed to him that an eternity had passed since then.

In reality, Vincent was still quite young even though he didn't feel that way most of the time. In fact, each year that passed made him feel not only older but also more certain that his life would end up being a great disappointment for both himself and those who had once expected great things from him. And all of this was either directly or indirectly related to his inability to write. It was tragically intertwined with those blank pages which seemed to grow even more immaculate at each passing year.

Vincent now felt as empty as those pages. He felt empty and old, even if he was not. What makes someone old is not how long one lives. It's a lack of dreams, or a lack of hope that those dreams might one day become real. His biggest dream had always been to become a writer and he believed it less every morning.

At thirty years old he was an empty vessel wondering the urban landscape he existed in. It was as if, at some point, somehow, he had lost his soul. His body was still there but inside that body there was only bitterness, regret and frustration. And nostalgia of course. Nostalgia had become his way of looking at the world.