As I mention in my first short book, for almost nine years I lived a borrowed dream — the dream of becoming a diplomat. It cost me not only time and money but also a gradual decline in my physical and mental health.
At the beginning of this year, I decided to change my life and put an end to that story. I threw away my handwritten notes and deleted old digital files. But in September, right before my birthday, I noticed that my bookshelf still held a few “essential” books for diplomatic studies — the kind everyone says you must have if you’re serious about the exam. They sat right next to books I truly love — The Artist’s Way included. So, I put them all into a huge grocery eco-bag, determined to give them a proper destination instead of simply tossing them in the trash.
What caught my attention was the gap between placing the books in the bag and actually getting rid of them. I’m convinced that everything in this world is driven by emotion — including our actions, and even more so, our inactions. What kept me, for almost two months, from selling or donating those books, even though I had already given up on the diplomatic career with absolute conviction?
A hasty part of my mind wanted to shout that those books were the last thread connecting me to that long-nurtured dream — that getting rid of them would mean taking a road with no return. But then, a wiser voice, one that feels more like my eternal soul — the one that has lived many lives — quietly rose within me and whispered something simple: the books stayed there for two months because they no longer mattered. Their irrelevance had become so complete that they didn’t deserve a spot in my schedule, not even before something more joyful.
And the key realization was this: if my decision to give up that diplomatic passport hadn’t come from the depths of my soul — if it hadn’t been made with total conviction — I would probably have rushed to sell the books right away, as an unconscious attempt to erase a mistake. Like someone sweeping dust under the rug so no one sees it.
Then, on Saturday, October 25th, 2025, I suddenly felt like taking a walk downtown — and finally decided to sell the books. The remarkable moment came when I saw how little money I got in return, barely a tenth of what I had paid over the years. Yet I didn’t feel anger or regret. I felt lucky.
Stepping out of that store felt like walking out of a government office after paying off a heavy debt — with a few coins still left in my pocket. Enough to cover lunch at a restaurant I like. Just the main dish though, since the drink and dessert required a bit more cash.
I also noticed something subtle had changed in me. After finishing lunch, I felt satisfied — not only in my stomach, but emotionally too. I didn’t feel like wandering around the mall for popcorn or ice cream, as I used to do every weekend. Lunch was enough. I didn’t need to put anything else inside me to fill a void.
Whether that was a change in consciousness or a sign of spiritual growth, only time will tell. But it was something lived with presence, felt with curiosity, and now remembered with affection.
On my Uber ride back home, I felt an overwhelming sleepiness — the kind that hits after a deep therapy session, whether psychological or spiritual. It was only 4 p.m. When I got home, I hurried to lie down on the couch and drifted into one of those memorable naps that make you forget time and space.
In the brief moments I half-woke, my mind seemed to be reliving the past — like a computer defragmenting its hard drive — while flashes of my current projects appeared, including this very site where you’re reading me now.
I woke up feeling light, different, renewed. I felt like celebrating, so I made coffee and had a slice of cake. It became a small, sacred celebration. Physically, I was alone at home, but I’m sure that if God — who has no past, no present, and no future — looked at me in that moment, He would’ve seen three people raising a toast together — and the thought moved me to tears.
A six-year-old little David, pure creativity itself; a seventeen-year-old David, the one who first fell in love with art, with writing, with turning subtle ideas into tangible words, and with nobility (back then, we were only a Count); and the present-day Marquis David, who writes these words with eyes still glistening.
And what do I say to my teenage Count? Not much needs to be said — only a gentle “welcome back, my dear self.” It’s good to have you with me again after all this time. And also… thank you.
Wishing you a wonderful Wednesday,
With faithfulness,
Marquis David
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