It seems to me, that for the past few weeks, that my updates have been absolute
SHITE.
No really. They don't really say anything, I haven't had an interesting tale to tell at all, and I actually have merely been typing just for the heck of updating.
(I feel it is further confirmed by the fact that even V-sweetie have stopped commenting T_T And everyone else, for that matter.)
I feel the need to recover my writing again. I truly do. I read a particularly well-written post on J's blog (here) and I admit, I am shamed at how I've neglected writing properly in my blog.
I should sit down, and think about what I am writing.
Writing; my heart feels heavy sometimes, because I now find little pleasure in it. I used to love the way the little black type collected together in little clumps to form ideas, thoughts and pictures. I can tell the whole world about anything at all –really, all I need is the right word.
And now the right words come like shy splatters of rain in blazing heat. They fizzle, just before they reach my fingers. I feel like a kaya bun with not enough kaya in me to even justify being named one. I feel like chocolate with no cocoa powder. I feel –alright, never mind. I am being melodramatic.
Oh, I could blame the lack of sleep. I could even blame the lack of brain activity. Mindless advertorials and tedious assignments have indeed, reduced my mental capacity to that of a six-year-old. I feel, however, a six year old would actually best me at reciting ABCs, because to my horror, I actually forgot mine. For a few seconds –I actually panicked.
(A. B. C… Holy cow, what comes next?? What???)
My Mommy dearest once said:
“If you write for a living you will find that it becomes, after some time, a tedious chore. Are you sure you want to take up so much freelancing? You will grow tired of it, even if you love it NOW.’
Mothers are right, you know. They always are. You think they are wrong, when first they speak ominous warnings.
But years later, when you’re older and wiser, you see how right they actually were –all along.
I had loved writing, much like a girl who loved a crush and thought about him all day and all night, before realizing that thinking about him so much is actually very tiring.
She would smile when she thought of him, she would treasure every moment spent with him. She would recall his every smile before she closes her eyes for sleep.
And upon waking, she would remember how he did something oh-so-cute the other day. About how she would smile at him with her heart in her eyes the next time she sees him. About her stolen glances (he would have a cute butt or something, something that she would find particularly attractive) and her melting heart.
Then she would realize, that he would always remain out of reach, and that he would always just be there as a good friend, and she would find the bittersweet truth in it to be painful, and yet come to be dependent on it.
After a long while, she would start to feel tired; exhausted by the mental exercise, of the tugging of the heart. It would be a chore to remember what he said that stole a piece of her heart. It would be painful and pleasurable at the same time to laugh quietly to herself at his jokes.
She still loves him, oh yes. She still loves him the way only a woman could love a man –a man who makes her happy, and who makes her feel like she’s special. She would never, ever, entirely give him up. But she is tired. It has become a chore to love someone who would remain so achingly close, but frustratingly distant.
He is my writing. He is my passion for writing. He is the pleasure I used to feel when I wrote for my eyes and my eyes only. He is the one I used to spend so much time with, just for the pleasure of his company. He never used to make me feel inadequate or stressed out. He was the one thing I could depend on to release whatever emotions that tore at my soul.
And now he has left. Should I chase him? Should I abandon all fatigue, and throw exhaustion to the winds, and run after him, calling his name and giving my heart out to him? Should I pursue my elusive lover with nary a care for my aching feet and broken heart?
I cannot tell if time would bring him back to me. I cannot tell if time will change his mind, and he will embrace me and truly, truly accept me at last. Or even if he would grant me the gift of his own self again.
Perhaps, deep down inside me somewhere, I am afraid. Terrified and scared to admit the truth.
Perhaps, just perhaps, I never had him at all, that he was never mine to begin with, and he was never there in the first place.
It’s a terrifying thought. A thought I would rather not ever see written, but I must write it down anyway –facing fears head-on is the best way to eliminate them, so they say.
I don’t agree. I beg to politely but most passionately differ. I think that fears are sometimes meant to be kept, to be tucked away in a mind-safe with a padlock. Fears that could unravel the very web you have built to make sense of the world and to fit inside it.
Foolish, aren’t I, then, to actually write this post? Foolish, and foolhardy, because even though I know that when I re-read this post I shall feel ashamed and embarrassed by my fears, I wrote it anyway.
I wrote it anyway.
