Replacing my inkless pen with a pencil and a sharpener…

How do I feel about writing? A line from a movie came off with this, “getting words from him is like pulling a piano off from a pond.” Well that’s exactly what I would say since I haven’t written anything in a very long time. Though I have diverted my attention to other forms of creative expression they still couldn’t amount the happiness I felt every time I write my thoughts down.

Yes, my last 2 years had simply became unproductive, mindless and boring. The pain of losing my written works is comparable to that of losing a child. I haven’t been pregnant (nor have any dreams of being one) but I could completely identify or express empathy to those women who had suffered from a miscarriage since I can measure up the whole process of writing to bearing a child – it is simply made up of hard work and love.

Then again, despite of this worthwhile experience I let this pain impede my ability to actualize my dreams. It did not serve as a tool or inspiration for me to beat the odds. Rather, it became my “Achilles heel” or my very own “Kryptonite.” It crippled me or shall I say, made me immobile. On the contrary, the anger and rage I stored up inside for almost 2 years made me grew tiresome. I was like an over erupted volcano worn-out from blowing my molten lavas. As I saw the lack of reason to this hatred I’ve finally decided to put an end to this self waged “war”, leave the battlefield, and go home without a hint or shed of animosity to the events that had wounded me.

This might sound like a cliché but the only way I could claim my freedom to grow is by allowing myself to let go of the pain I’ve held in the past. That’s why it is only befitting to title this entry as “replacing my inkless pen with a pencil and a sharpener” because it is about letting go of something that is already of no use.

My anger by now is a waste of energy; my complaining, a waste of time. Right now is a new beginning, a new notepad, a renewed reason for living.

A voice within tried to tell my heart that I should start sticking to doing things I know I could do no wrong like singing, or perhaps in activities that I’m passionate the most where I could see myself improving such as writing and taking photographs.

Promises are a silly thing to commit into. There are twist and tales, hidden plots, the workings of the subconscious, plans of the powers that be, lies and deceit, which one is which I don’t know. What I’m definitely sure is I’m not sure.