I hate writing... because it always bought tears and shame. I hate writing because it is confusing. I spend twenty years choosing a topic to write. Not that the topics were scarce, but choosing the angle to narrate them was the difficult part. Because life can be narrated in so many angles and I no longer know which emotion I should use to encounter an incident. You see, my emotional gland is not an automatic gun, it is a manual one.
Three years I have spent choosing the language to write. And today I am tired of acting the fallen angel. So I am spending this day to ponder “why am I afraid of writing? “
It is really a wonder how words are put together in different forms to form music or film or any forms of art. I am 24 years old and I still ponder about things. I consider it as an achievement, (though others think I am stupid and slow) because some people I know stopped it a long time ago.
I am a coward. I am afraid of love, music, and romantic movies ...anything that brings the emotions out of me. Don’t waste your time trying to read my mind. Gone are the days when I was a difficult poem to read. Now I am a piece of paper lying on the street, waiting for God to write something on it. Now I am willing to be anything... but something.
I can’t stand the pain of being a writer. But I can’t be a normal person either. Like a eunuch I lie between the two worlds. My pain is not created by the world, but by the conflicts inside me. I found little solace in God...well, I blame that on church. I being a typical catholic can think of God only as a punishing, strict and unreasonable big father. Well, that is the image I got from their Sunday speeches.
I scrutinize every word I write. I would think in other person’s shoes, wondering how they will judge me after reading it. And I don’t want to be judged. I am not writing for anybody... not even for me to read later. I don’t even know whether there is any relationship between the paragraphs. I don’t read what I wrote before. And I am not thinking hard for a topic. Maybe I will delete it after posting. But I write because I feel so...
I don’t know whether I am happy or not now. Explaining things makes me sick.
Life is like a movie which does not have a villain in the end who explains why all this is happening to you... he just shoots you and leaves. And you lie there bleeding and wondering ...what the heck?
