I miss writing. I miss that I used to feel so good when I could just finish one article or a blog post without a kind of a barrier or doubt to stop me from posting it.
Now, I feel restless. It’s 11pm in KL where everything just feels out of place and somehow I miss the vibe of a home. And the funny thing is, I’ve only been here for two days. It intensifies as I was just lying on the bed with this sudden urge to write out my frustrations on how I ridiculously miss writing. So damn bad.
I miss writing and having the urge to just break the rules of writing and let everything flows like that of a rain as it hits the ground or like that of the water as it flows along the river and follow its current to a bigger end—to the sea or ocean.
I miss that I don’t have to follow the rules and just forget about use my so-called writing skills to earn and make a living.
I miss that I don’t have to constrain my true emotions and frustrations when writing and not needing to be right or better.
I miss being vulnerable but not having to the tell the world what I am going through. I just miss having a productive conversation with my inner world and come up with something that I believe would ripple its way to at least someone out there—someone who’s ever reading this.
I miss being authentic in my writing and not having the care in the world where it would lead to or how that would somehow “change” something.
I miss that my mind would guide my fingers to type words effortlessly because I felt deeply of what I wanted to convey in the first place.
I’ve stopped making the time to write just because “life happens”.
I have stories to tell—I really do. But I don’t believe it enough to just let it out in the open or thought that it would be ready. It’s no longer about “writer’s block” nor it is that I don’t know what my creative process is.
Writing has become a part of me but I have neglected it for—not even days or weeks—but months. I can’t remember sitting down and completing a piece of writing without the nay sayers in my mind that it has to be something so good. I have felt so deprived at so many level and yet, I chose to neglect to alleviate that deprivation over and over again.
I guess I was so afraid of admitting and embracing the notion that I am struggling to keep up. I am struggling to just make things happen again.
And yes, I am making excuses and that’s because I am just being human.
I don’t know where this conversation is headed to, but I think it’s a start of something than nothing at all.
This is me just declaring to myself that I miss writing. And this needs to be the start of something again, no matter how difficult it is going to get.
This has to be. I’ve broken my comfort zone of what, how and where I’d imagine myself to write and completely rebelled against my routine.
This just has to be it.