I used to be a healthy man. Life was good. And then it wasn’t.
At the age of twenty-five I tripped, fell, smashed my head into a metal fence and lost it all. University, job, sports, house, friends. But above all: my health.
I’ve been waking up with the feeling of a severe concussion ever since. Every verb imaginable worsens it, from blinking my eyes to breathing. Nausea, frequent loss of consciousness and first and foremost, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year: pain.
So there I sat. The hospitals’ and therapists’ most loyal visitor. Condemned to social welfare, heavily depressed, alone.
That’s when I picked up a pen. I dipped my thoughts in ink to kill time instead of yours truly. That writing turned into an escape plan.
I did not end my life, I quit this way of living. I sold all I owned, bought a backpack, a notepad and a plane ticket and fled.
Now here I stand, somewhere on this earth. Travelling the world. Balancing between losing sanity and finding happiness. Meanwhile writing. Hoping to inspire, entertain and never having to return to the way it once was.
Let me show you why hanging on beats hanging yourself. Because you see, I’m far from being a saint, but these horns make for a damn good story.