While I was having a break from an online class today, I tried to rummage through my bag hoping to find that pad where I have scribbled a new story that dawned on me while I was on-board a ferry going to Cebu. I have this habit of scribbling a few sentences on receipts, an abandoned paper in my bag or a bus ticket whenever I feel the urge. For some reason, I don’t like keeping an official journal. A notebook makes me feel that I HAVE to write and have to open that notebook as much as possible.
But yes, I have a journal some years back, that I never dared open yet until now. I guess I am not yet ready to face the kind of passion that I put to writing some years back compared with the lackadaisical, aimless, practical life that I want to lead at the moment.
It has been four years since I’ve written a full short story. And in a workshop, it was praised and well-accepted by critics including a college professor who has been a close friend and my momentary mum who unceasingly hear my life story and the psychological turmoils of a college kid who is experiencing some kind of a dark night of the soul after her brother decided to get married and left her in an unfinished quest to fight with the raging dilemmas of adolescence. Oh boy, I have just summarized a chapter in my life! LOL!
I like writing stories. I used to write poems but after writing my first ever short story, I feel I am more at home with the loose and experimental structure of a short story compared with the cerebral, organized structure of a poem. The bad thing about writing stories or writing in general is that it didn’t let me stop thinking even in the most inconspicuous places and moments–while shitting, on the bus going home from work, while talking with a friend, in the middle of a work or while doing one of the most intimate pleasures you have like having sex. LOL!
For years, I have been silencing my mind and since then. The past four years are mostly f*ck ups anyway. And should writing really imitate life even its scum? So, here I am. In four years,I have survived recovering from a very disastrous relationship. I have survived from being allienated from people around me including friends that I used to have. My night job as a tutor and my busy schedule, basically, weakens my social life. Also, I feel lonely being thrown back in my town without anybody sharing the same ideals and love for movies, books or hobbies.
But that’s enough, I guess. I would like to end that phase with so much courage as I could muster. Maybe, there is really no need to silence my thoughts after all. I just have to let them go and be me even with all the f*ck up stuff happening around me. Inner strength. I have developed some of it and I need more.
I don’t care if I will have my receipts dirtied and the abandoned papers in my bag be filled with scribbles. I am even planning to put some kind of a board inside my room. I would like to write again as much as I can. By the way, I have observed that most of my ideas are borne when I’m away from home. So away from home I should, from time to time. I should also see my professor again or talk to my brother again. I am not really the type who looks back in the past. But I guess I have to do it. I have to write again.