Book of Days
WTF am i doing NOT Writing???
Tell me, why am i f wasting my time with these trivial commentaries? Why am f involved with all these inane things that my soul does not care about, not one whit?
Blogging is good exercise for the writer, if and only if, it helps her/him refine her thoughts and broaden her/his perspective. But when you start talking about frea**** Britney Spears, you know you've hit the ground, worse for wear. Tell me, am I being too hard on myself?
Because i don't think so.
Let me tell you why I had been trying to make my blog colorful --- I want to be read. I hope that for the last two years since I had been doing this thing, I at least, could have entertained just one soul. Reading back over what i have written, I can get lost for hours; but after all is said and done, it does not leave a mark inside. I do not feel changed. I believe it's safe to deduce that the readers do not feel changed as well.
Entertaining, yes. Meaningful, no.
Can any of you understand? I'm stuck in this lazy body, and my words cannot leave up to the pristine intricateness of what i want to write about. I. Do. Not. Have. The. Words.
No focus. No drive. Just like the rest of my life.
I have the illusion that I was born to write. Something. Anything. But I get by for months without putting down to paper what I truly want to say. I am drowning in words, but not one of them is what I was born to write.
And out of this frustration, I get touchy and irritable to the people I love the most. I have lost my interest at work, easily blaming it on people I dislike, completely forgetting that I have complete power to change that. I feel stunted. Wing-less. Because I couldn't say the words I need to say, I have lost my capacity for flight. I am not crazy. This is how important writing is to me. It is me. I feel a pain in my gut everytime I remember how I am continually failing to do what I need to do.
I have to get things straight around here. I have to sit down every night as I have promised myself and write. I cannot quit my job because it is not the reason why i couldn't write. If anything, it provides me the fodder because I work with people and not things. I work for causes and not just targets. I am given stories, day in and day out, on a silver platter and I do not see because I choose to let my eyes remain hooded. The stories are not in my head. They are out there in the world. So I should sit up and pay attention.
No more words here, but I will try to resusitate my storyteller blog. No more trivias. I'll rename it my book of days.
I'm sorry for wasting everybody's time.
Tell me, why am i f wasting my time with these trivial commentaries? Why am f involved with all these inane things that my soul does not care about, not one whit?
Blogging is good exercise for the writer, if and only if, it helps her/him refine her thoughts and broaden her/his perspective. But when you start talking about frea**** Britney Spears, you know you've hit the ground, worse for wear. Tell me, am I being too hard on myself?
Because i don't think so.
Let me tell you why I had been trying to make my blog colorful --- I want to be read. I hope that for the last two years since I had been doing this thing, I at least, could have entertained just one soul. Reading back over what i have written, I can get lost for hours; but after all is said and done, it does not leave a mark inside. I do not feel changed. I believe it's safe to deduce that the readers do not feel changed as well.
Entertaining, yes. Meaningful, no.
Can any of you understand? I'm stuck in this lazy body, and my words cannot leave up to the pristine intricateness of what i want to write about. I. Do. Not. Have. The. Words.
No focus. No drive. Just like the rest of my life.
I have the illusion that I was born to write. Something. Anything. But I get by for months without putting down to paper what I truly want to say. I am drowning in words, but not one of them is what I was born to write.
And out of this frustration, I get touchy and irritable to the people I love the most. I have lost my interest at work, easily blaming it on people I dislike, completely forgetting that I have complete power to change that. I feel stunted. Wing-less. Because I couldn't say the words I need to say, I have lost my capacity for flight. I am not crazy. This is how important writing is to me. It is me. I feel a pain in my gut everytime I remember how I am continually failing to do what I need to do.
I have to get things straight around here. I have to sit down every night as I have promised myself and write. I cannot quit my job because it is not the reason why i couldn't write. If anything, it provides me the fodder because I work with people and not things. I work for causes and not just targets. I am given stories, day in and day out, on a silver platter and I do not see because I choose to let my eyes remain hooded. The stories are not in my head. They are out there in the world. So I should sit up and pay attention.
No more words here, but I will try to resusitate my storyteller blog. No more trivias. I'll rename it my book of days.
I'm sorry for wasting everybody's time.
Comments
Post a Comment