Looking back at my recent writing on this blog, all the word documents saved in random places on my laptop or the spontaneous blurbs stored on my phone, I feel a similar and shared translated mood. They all relate to my own life, and most of them are depressing.

But my life isn’t depressing. No, not at all.

And I might be a hard realist, often a pessimist when it concerns me and my life, but I’m not someone who is sad, depressed and hopeless.

But when I re-read the things I’ve written, I feel like that’s what my writing seems to give off. Rather often lately, I’ve ended up stuck with a confused expression on my face because I wasn’t able to catch the parallel between the way my writing depicts my life and my life itself. That’s when I started to think. Why did I ever start writing?

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved lacing alphabets into strings of words. The satisfaction I got from looking at a finished piece of organized thoughts was inexplicable and always made me crave for more. I started off writing poems with silly rhyme schemes, to mildly deep articles for elementary school standards, to keeping a diary, to writing stories on Wattpad to eventually resorting to just blogging and journalling. But I think over the years, the time I had at the ready began to quickly diminish. The purpose of my writing began to transition from one of a favorite pastime to something I would do when I remembered. When would I remember what I loved doing the most?

When I needed it the most.

By definition, catharsis is the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions. My writing was my mode of catharsis.

That’s why my writing seems to blanket a not-so-veiled theme of sad thoughts. I write to make myself feel good, because the pen has never failed me and has always been my best friend. I also write when I’m inspired, because I’m absolutely over the clouds and speaking the emotion just isn’t enough – I want it to stay written for times when I need to be motivated.

Now, I don’t know if this is necessarily wrong. I always had, always do and always will continue to write for myself. So if my writing is making me feel better in times when I need it to make me feel better, that’s fine – right? But, when I look back a few days, weeks, months or years from now, I don’t want to feel what I’m going through now. I see several sad posts that fallaciously depict my past life differently, but then I smile at the posts that reflect motivation and chances to reach the stars. Seeing the waves from these rather sad posts to inspired ones and looking at the time stamps on them makes me feel happy, because it tells me time can change things.

See, that’s how I want my writing to ideally be. I want to get back to my passion, and what I love to do the most. I want to go back to writing when I’m happy, excited, dreaming and still want to be writing when I’m sad, mad, conflicted or even, heart-broken. I want my writing to reflect my life as I know it. I want to be able to translate my reality into a parallel reality. I want to be able to connect my life to this paper universe, and in my effort, be able to connect to these words at some other point in my life, or to another person.

This might just be another promise I wish to hold, and I may end up breaking it because the demons of lesser self-motivation, procrastination and lack of time may strike. But even though I’ve given up on writing several times every now and then, writing has never given up on me.

I miss the way words have changed my life. I really miss writing. And I can’t wait to make this realization leave me lost in my universe of alphabets, imagination and boundlessness now, tomorrow or some point in the future.

Because I know I will always come back to writing.



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