I’m supposed to be working. I have about a dozen things to do. I’m supposed to be working on this to-do list I have created a couple of days ago (while explaining to one of my learners why I don’t think is different from I don’t think so. It’s funny enough when they simply say it; it’s even more hilarious when they ask you to explain, I swear.)
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Blogging is so like book-writing. Only it's not. :|
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And I end up working on a new blog.
Blame it on my friends whose blogs are really inspiring. Reading about the short bits and pieces called memories we leave in this world has always left me inspired. That might be one of the reasons why I have decided to go back to blogging.
Blame it on Bedroom Blog by Veronica, a website on cosmo.ph, a regular read of mine when I don’t have lessons to take/teach or reports to finish. The author is one feisty woman who has lived such a different life from mine but whose experiences are very similar to yours truly. Her 22-year old self is just like me in so many ways. I wonder if I’ll end up as confident and as beautiful as she is a few years from now.
But mostly blame it on that person who once said “You should go back to writing. Me, writing [will be] pointless if you don’t start writing again.”
Ha. You know who you are. As usual, you win. Here I am again, blogging.
I wonder how similar this blog would be to the others I’ve had before. I know that this’d be definitely different. I’m still kind of transparent…but not as transparent as I used to be. And I am totally totally more conscious of my grammar now. Harharhar. (But if I still do commit a grammar mistake, screw you, grammar Nazi, and kill me.)
Though I did miss this. I missed opening a new file and just staring at that blinking cursor the first few minutes before I write. I missed racking my brains out to find the perfect word to describe whatever it is I am feeling. I missed the sound of my fingers hitting the keys on a laptop while words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, histories pour out and make themselves alive on paper, never to be erased, never to be forgotten.
Now, at 3:15 on the 2nd early morning of May, I realized that, though I love acting and painting, there are some things that are best described by words. Sure, pictures may paint a thousand words. But how can you be sure that the people you want to reach out to see these pictures the same way that you do? Actions speak louder than words, they say. Based on my experience, they do speak louder than words but they can mean too much or too little. Your perception of an act of love may just be an act of kindness or, worse, pity.
These ideas, my friends, got me writing again. I think this time it can work out. I mean, I tried writing sometime in January but it was an epic failure. I know why it failed, though: I wrote a diary/journal. It was too personal and too hidden. Let’s face it; I’m a performer. I thrive when I am onstage, under the strong, heavy lights. I guess it’s the same with writing. I write for my readers because being read is what I need to do for myself.
Does that make any sense at all? Forgive me. It’s 4:15 in the morning.
But …may I be completely honest with you?
This is the part where you shout Of course, Madz! with all the pizazz/swag/whatever you have.
Okay?
Okay.
;)
I stopped writing in summer of 2009. So, it has been three years since I have tried to reestablish the habit of writing something creative and, more importantly, something mine (because, yes, I wrote during those years but always for other people.) I stopped writing because it made me think of too many bad memories – things I’d rather forget. I was too tired of fighting all the time so I ran away. Well, I think it’s time I stop running and face these demons. I think it’s time I forgive that part of myself and let it heal. It’s time to forgive and to free the writer in me.
Oh, and it’s time for fools like me try to get some sleep.
Ciao ciao ciao for now. :)
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"You should go back to writing.
Me, writing [will be] pointless
if you don't start writing again."
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