Leave me on a desserted island with nothing but a pen and a piece of paper; with those, I shall create myself another world.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

It lived. It died.

I wanted to become a writer.

That was the dream. The goal. The sole ambition I ever had in life ever since I was a little girl who, out of the blue, found out that writing is the one thing that can lift loads off her chest. The trigger to my writing, however, was a trivial matter that leads me today, to a big dilemma.

It all began when my sisters left to university and I found myself living with my parents in an age that is usually accompanied by phrases like "My parents will never get it". Frankly, my imagination led me to sit on a desk and write in a journal the way all those characters in movies did when they were dramatically depressed. And so, I did. The journey was initiated with a prose and quickly, I found myself able to rhyme. I found that my love for English with all its vocabulary enabled me to combine words that portray the most vivid of pictures and convey the most sincere emotions. Today, I wish I have never put my pen to that paper.
I was raised by an encouraging mother who injected potential thoughts of publishing a book in my mind. I grew up hoping for nothing but that. Then it happened. I left to the world of higher education to follow my siblings. I majored in marketing because it was the wise thing to do (or so I have been told). I forgot to nurse the talent I had. And I believe..I lost it.

Naturally, one can not lose a talent over night. Yet, isn't it highly likely that if you neglect to play a musical instrument you used to (for years), you will forget how to? I did not forget how to write, of course. I just couldn't do it anymore. I lost the inspiration and the motivation to write. I lost the ability to express myself. It's not like I just gave up, you know. I tried over and over again. But the pictures I tried to paint just came out distorted, the colors didn't seem to blend with each other and the words...they became void of feelings.

The date on which that dream began is as vague to me as my current writing.
Yet, the date on which it died is as clear to me as the failure I see in my now-paralysed-on-paper hands.

Time of death: 6:43 a.m
Cause of death: Lack of what it takes.