Dreams

Had such big dreams.

Have big dreams ’til now.

Silence. Travel. Write.

Haven’t written anything significant to others until now. It must feel good to touch and inspire other people’s lives. I want to write to inspire others. I want to write for I want to do that one thing I really love to. But here I am, stuck in the I-want-to’s of my coward weak little self.

Conscious.

So conscious of how others will feel about my thoughts. My words. My writings. Every time I finish a sentence or a paragraph, I put myself to a halt. I’ll think of the next paragraphs and sentences instead of writing them down directly. I think of good words, impressive ones then, I lost it. I lost my goal to write my thoughts. I lost the goal to write for myself because I started writing for others. I started writing for their preferences. The audiences have kept me stuck away from my goal. And I gladly abide.

Goal.

It is somehow confusing. I want to write. I need to write. I need to translate into words the emotions I can’t bear to express. I need to release the tension using these words so I may not hurt others. Yes. I have a great tendency to hurt others when I can’t hold onto my feelings. I have the tendency to punish and hurt myself when I cannot understand myself. In the middle of writing, I usually pause, think of other stuff and then again, I lost it.

Heartbreak.

I’ve discovered writing through a heartbreak. Yes, because a little girl’s heart was broken by the man she thought she owes her life forever. The little girl’s heart was then stepped on by another man who made her heart flutter, her cheeks red and her knees wobble. Then, he breaks her heart into pieces. So, she lost it.

Mask. 

The mask is born. Because others should not know the little girl is crying, she wore the mask everyday of her life. She smiles. She laughs. She dances. She even sings. She does a lot with that mask on. And when she’s tired, she takes off the mask. The swollen red eyes were there, holding back the tears, too tired to even blink. Nights. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Time passed. The little girl has grown in size. So, as the mask.

Sleep.

For a long time, she forgot about writing. She found a new ¬†friend. A new way of eluding pain. Sleep. But her body got tired of sleeping. She needs to wake up. She needs to write. Erasures. Deletions. She’s been welcomed by them. She realized she no longer knows how to put her heart into words. Words had become elusive. Words had become hurtful and deceitful. Words had turned its back on her. She can no longer write. She barely knows what to write.

Write.

That grown up little girl from before wanted to be friends with words again. She wanted to be friends with pens and paper. She believes writing is not for everybody. She once asked ” How would you know that writing is your passion?” The answer was simple, “You’ll never know how good you are when you stop.” So, she writes everyday. That day marks the end of her relationship with her thoughts, with words, with the pens and paper. Because she started writing for others. She completely lost it. She forgot that writing should be her. It is HER. More than anything else in the world, writing is her solace. Her peace. Her quiet place. Her only dummy.

 

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