I didn't expect I would come to the point when it would be so difficult for me to go back on something that used to feel so easy, like breathing. Because just like the old dolls and rumpled stickers that I loved so dearly, I look at this once-cherished-hobby now with so much dull and emptiness. It wasn’t like this before. Out of all the very few things I considered myself I’m good at, I can tell, I don’t know how to write anymore. I can no longer find the right words to express what my mind and heart want to. Sometimes I fear in picking words that might leave me misunderstood; maybe that’s why I hadn’t touched my pen since then. It wasn’t like this before.
What would my younger self feel when she sees me now — the older she, who has already long forgotten how fascinating, therapeutic, and relieving it feels to write her heart out? What would she say when she finds out that our shared passion for creating tales and stories no longer lives in this body? What would she feel when I’m beginning to take another path that’s way different from what we promised each other?
I remember how I used to spend most of my days living in my own imagination — creating scenarios in my head, connecting them piece by piece, and typing them on my notepad at late night. Those were some good old days. I missed being immersed with my own writing because right now, I’m just all about surviving and thinking about the future. I’ve been putting a lot of things aside for the sake of it — which I’ve been okay with for quite some time now, until I realized it’s been months since I have ever written something for myself. It has been that long, and there’s a small ache that lingers thinking about it. I guess, this night is one of the rarest days I feel the sadness strongly.
To all the dreams, hobbies, and things I chose to sacrifice because I needed to or because it was the easiest thing I could put aside: I hope I can still pick you up at the places I left off.
I didn't expect I would come to the point when it would be so difficult for me to go back on something that used to feel so easy, like breathing. Because just like the old dolls and rumpled stickers that I loved so dearly, I look at this once-cherished-hobby now with so much dull and emptiness. It wasn’t like this before. Out of all the very few things I considered myself I’m good at, I can tell, I don’t know how to write anymore. I can no longer find the right words to express what my mind and heart want to. Sometimes I fear in picking words that might leave me misunderstood; maybe that’s why I hadn’t touched my pen since then. It wasn’t like this before.
What would my younger self feel when she sees me now — the older she, who has already long forgotten how fascinating, therapeutic, and relieving it feels to write her heart out? What would she say when she finds out that our shared passion for creating tales and stories no longer lives in this body? What would she feel when I’m beginning to take another path that’s way different from what we promised each other?
I remember how I used to spend most of my days living in my own imagination — creating scenarios in my head, connecting them piece by piece, and typing them on my notepad at late night. Those were some good old days. I missed being immersed with my own writing because right now, I’m just all about surviving and thinking about the future. I’ve been putting a lot of things aside for the sake of it — which I’ve been okay with for quite some time now, until I realized it’s been months since I have ever written something for myself. It has been that long, and there’s a small ache that lingers thinking about it. I guess, this night is one of the rarest days I feel the sadness strongly.
To all the dreams, hobbies, and things I chose to sacrifice because I needed to or because it was the easiest thing I could put aside: I hope I can still pick you up at the places I left off.