When the Dream Returns Uninvited

This part will probably be long. And rightly so — it spans at least the last 25 years of my life, and maybe even more. So let’s not waste time.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. The written word has held a kind of magical power over my imagination, keeping me in a constant state of pursuit — always running, always chasing after invisible temptations. A bit like that proverbial donkey with the carrot dangling just out of reach. I wrote my first “book” when I was around eight years old, only to discover what would later become a central rule in my writing life: writing is easy — finding readers is the hard part.

I chose philosophy as my field of study, half-convinced that only it could give me the mental horizon I needed for “real writing.” Much later, I would come to understand that the truly important things in life are rarely a matter of free choice. But at the time, there was still plenty of time.

Then came a sharp and completely unexpected crisis at the end of my twenties — one that made me question all my dreams and plans. I decided that my dream had been barren, and that it was time to plant my feet firmly on the ground. I burned everything I’d written up to that point, left for Germany, and started from scratch. I started a family, later launched my own business, and lived the comfortable life of the German middle class.

And gradually, I began to limp.

The strange thing was, the more I succeeded in embodying the image of the successful immigrant, the more I felt my life had lost its meaning. I was earning well, we were meeting life’s challenges, and we seemed to be becoming a mature, balanced, harmonious couple. And yet, inside me, something kept tapping, pulsing — like an infection. I had no idea what it was, and I did everything I could to ignore it.

I was approaching forty — that time of life when the first real reckoning arrives. I didn’t feel regret, exactly. Just a kind of discomfort, a tightness, like a snake whose skin has outlived its time. But then again, when had it ever been different? I pushed the feeling aside and continued on, convinced I was living life “the right way.” After all, I was doing what people expect. What could be more correct than that?

The change came without warning — and, as with all the most important turns in my life, without the participation of my conscious will. I had launched my business in ’95, and almost simultaneously, an unbearable sense of boredom and meaninglessness began to gnaw at me. I was making good money — I’ve said that already — but within a year, money had stopped motivating me. I tried expanding the business, but the very idea of devoting myself to the sole pursuit of profit seemed so exhausting, so pointless, that I dropped it almost immediately.

Maybe this sounds pretentious or strange now, especially without much explanation. But really, it’s simple.

I’ve always resisted the idea that my fate is merely “human” — that I should spend a set amount of time in this world, leave behind a few genetic copies, and then vanish into nothingness. The thought of disappearing like a brief spark has always felt unbearable to me. That’s the source of all my dreams, my plans, my efforts. Whatever happens, I must do everything I can to leave behind something that won’t vanish with the decay of my physical body. Something that matters. Something that lives on.

That’s where “writing” comes in. That’s where all the other aspirations come from. That’s why I’ve always mistrusted money. In my understanding, only something that continues to interest and excite people long after I’m gone can leave a real, lasting trace. I know that for many people, money is the most obvious way to achieve that. But not for me.

Yes, money can make your name and your story linger in the collective memory. And sure, sometimes people use money to create something that lives on. But that’s too ideal a scenario for me to rely on. I’d rather focus directly on making those things — the ones that people might remember and care about. Whether they lead to money… that’s a question I rarely ask. Money can’t buy me love, I suppose.

Maybe now it’s clearer why, by the late ’90s, the feeling of meaninglessness and betrayal of my dream had become so overwhelming. I felt like an animal in a cage. Nothing made sense. Nothing brought joy. I chased fulfillment in anything that offered even a flicker of hope — even chess. I spent nearly five years obsessively working on it, haunted by the idea that with the help of a computer, I might create a kind of “artwork.” Eventually, I had to admit the idea was an illusion.

And then, I gave up. I told myself that life — the meaningful part of it — was over.

This has happened to me more than once. I’ve written about it elsewhere, and I don’t want to repeat myself. But in all my many crises, one thing has always happened — something I might as well call a miracle. At first, I never even recognize it. But it always opens up a space, a little tunnel through the cosmic mess — just wide enough for my tiny, probably insignificant, but still utterly essential human mission. Somehow, I find myself in a new place, without even realizing how I got there.

And that’s how the story of Firecurl began.