Lonely is the word that best describes what I feel for the moment. There’s this deep and unexplainable feeling that seems to thrive within me, a feeling quite similar to frustration yet a bit different from disappointment. Name it whatever it is.
I was in splendid solitude. And so I peek outside of my bedroom letting myself be consoled by the murmuring wind as it blows the crispy leaves of a narra tree that stood adjacent my room’s window. The surrounding was void by any cheer yet filled by an emanating gloom that stems from the imminent bad weather. Rain is going to pour in any minute adding more emphasis on the sadness I’m feeling all over. For some time, I was in constant battle with my mind and so with what my heart feels on which I’m getting tired of now. I’m into contemplation why there are things you seem to innately possess yet have no means to make it big. In my heart I feel that I have this innate gift, a flair of conjuring and weaving words into a powerful thought but my mind says that I’ve got a handful of restrictions which seems to overpower what my heart believes in. Specifically, this dilemma has brought me questioning the purpose of acquiring such talent only to be mired and trapped from constraints after a while.
Ever since I was a kid I have this sincere fascination with words. I could still recall on how I would fondly rummage over the pages of the dilapidated dictionary we had at home. It was the only book we have, my only source of knowledge then. I have found a peculiar comfort on its pages similar to the feeling of thirst quenched by a glass full of water. This time-worn book though damaged, ushered me to the wonders of information and meaning which was lovelier than the wonders of playing with my neighbor’s kids. Each of us I believe has its own calling to pursue in life. Some find the comfort in the caress of paint brushes, some in the melody of songs, some in the toughness of sports while others find joy in the art of carving words into life through novels, stories and poems which I learned to be my strong suit.
The passion to write with emotions engraved on each of my sentence has been my way of crafting my art. I have learned it through long and constant observation of the works of other people whom I have come face to face on books. Yes, those dear books which taught me better than my mentors in school. I have grown reading Guy de Maupassant short stories and he has been my guru though his body of works were hard to digest. At first I knew I’m faking it, convincing myself that soon in time I’m going to love his art naturally without looking at dictionary to comprehend his highfalutin words. Mary Shelley also taught me relentlessly by his masterpiece Frankenstein which time after time I have glanced into. In my foray in the realm of novels, it was Scott O’ Dell whom I loved the most. It was more of love at first sight as I was enamored by his writing style which prose is simple yet elegantly written.
Lately, I did realize that I want to pursue the dream to inspire people through words and it has been oblivious to me that even before I have trodden such path especially on the day I have given birth to my blog, a personal space on the web that cuddled my thoughts about my society that I breathe in. As I looked back over the years I found out that I haven’t been so effective of conveying my message to my readers which definitely makes me feel sad. I knew I failed to instill magic with every post that I write. Perhaps, I haven’t carried those of my mentors writing style or worse I fell short of putting meat on my art.
I wanted to be a writer and I thought it’s that easy but I was wrong. Some people have thrown themselves in the confines of classrooms to study creative writing and other writing stuff. So how people like me whose background knowledge doesn’t go such height? How am I going to pursue? I’m going to work out a lot of impediments first and I knew how tough the rigors towards it.
I hate to say it but it makes me feel lonely. I have been writing for my blog for three years and now it’s my anniversary. I have come far enough but still haven’t done a lot. One day I hope I can free myself from the margins which I’m seeing now. I hope I can adapt this talent into career which from the start has been my wish.The writer in me is sad and aims to be freed from the confines of this blog to flourish and conquer new avenue.
As I gazed back outside, the rain started pouring bringing chill in my system. Somehow it brought comfort against the forlorn atmosphere I’m feeling.Still, for those hard to reach dreams I say Aja and before I cuddle myself to sleep I say “Challenging third year anniversary to my Blog.”