write.write.write.
Monday, May 7th, 2007Total crap. My quality of my writings nowadays is deteriorating. I used to write better back then when I was in my teenage years. I used to write about so-called friends and as far as I remember, that was my first writing. I used to write short poems and whenever my friends read it, they’ll ask whether it is a lyric or a poem. And I always said the former. I’m too embarrassed to admit that I wrote them. It’s too corny. Anyways, it’s the piece of an amateur writer. I knew I love to write when I realize that I get so darn agitated whenever my English teacher asked us to write an essay. I used to write longer than my friends and I wrote it better than my essay in bahasa. And I did it twice faster than my friends and they even ask me for ideas. I love it when they read my essay and showered me with tons of compliment. The height of my so-called “gift” is when my English teacher back then when I was in form three showed-off my essay to other classes and preached, “This is how you should write your essays” to them. I was totally blown away by this occurrence and I felt like I’m on top of the world. That was absolutely cool.
I loved the fact that he enjoyed my essay and keen on reading more of it. You can say that I get a bit “big-headed” back then. And suddenly I hate all of the attention that people gave to me. They stopped me almost everywhere to ask me to check their essays for them. It’s cool. But the worst part is when people came up to you and expect me to write essays for them. Now that sucks. And being me, I can’t say no to people. And the same problem haunts me through the years. It’s not that don’t want to help people, but I only want to help people who helped themselves. Some of them just dumped me with their texts or essays and expect me to translate it so that their job gets easier. The correct thing to do in order for them to improve is to try. The thing is, they don’t try at all. They just cast off their assignments to me without giving it a try. And the thing that weakens me is when they started to use the phrases such as: I’m not really good in English. You’re good. You can help me. So please translate this. Dump. I really need to learn to say no man. Sometimes I feel that people are using me for their own good.
Back to my whining on the quality of my writings, I recently bought a new blank paperback because my old journal is nearly full. I started to fill in my thoughts into the faithful green covered journal since I finished my high school. It used to be my history notebook. But I thought the book is too cute to waste so I turned it to my journal. Since then, I never stop writing. Maybe it’s my last resort because I don’t have anymore essay homework to complete since I had finished my high school. I wanted to write. So I write what lurks deep down in my heart. I don’t remember my first entry in the journal. I tried to track it down but I failed to because I only wrote down the time and the date without the year. So it’s kinda hard to locate which one. But I guess what I first jot down inside that authentic journal was about my SPM result. And the rest of it is mostly my rage and my constant rebel against my parents and the rest of the world. Teens. They think they are the only sane people in the whole wide world and their parents can’t hardly understand what they go through. That is a total crap. And that’s what I learnt all these years.
When I read back all of my entries, I laugh, I smiled, I cried and occasionally, I felt like throwing up. Especially to the ones where I wrote about how madly I am in love with somebody. That’s my flaw. I love to write about my stance towards guys. I admit I constantly think about my crushes and when I did that, I wrote down every bit of my thoughts. And sometimes I dread that anybody will found it and read it and discover that I am such a softie. Gosh. And now that I have blogs in three sites in amount, I’m beginning to desert my journal. I mean, blogs are amusing derived from the fact that people read your shit and you get some recognition every now and then. But there’s something that blogs can’t offer me. I loved the fact that I can publish my shit to public and all. I loved people who came by and read it. But the fact that I have to be vigilant in my every post tends to hold me back. I have in fact, wrote some stuff that hurts people and drove them away from me. I just thought that typing away all of my inner-feelings on some out of the ordinary episodes in my life helped me to release the pain and stress that I’ve gone through. That’s what I learn to do since I was young.
Whenever I am gloomy, pleased, barmy, forlorn, I wrote. I wrote all of my anger, joy and whatnots down on a piece of paper. I never told anybody how I actually feel because I am not trained to do so. I hid it in me and nobody really knew how I felt. I am not raised the way other kid is. Any verbal illustration of my feelings is weird, bizarre, odd, peculiar and that sort. At least that’s what I learnt as a child. I never told my parents that I loved them. It’s like “constrained”. Growing up with that kind of mentality, I now become a reserved person. I never lash out what I felt. I just write. It makes me feel better. Journals, on the other hand gave me the liberty of writing without anybody getting hurt (unless if they read it without my knowledge and if that happens, they have no rights to be annoyed because they themselves have invaded other people’s solitude). Plus, I get to draw! I can’t possibly draw in my blog right? There’s one time I am so perturbed and I’m incapable of writing down all of my frustrations. So I draw. Funnily enough, after drawing, I felt a sense of relief. A liberation.
Okay. This is emancipation. I’ve been bitching about something that really doesn’t matter for the past one hour. Actually, I’m just killing time. I am so drenched in this appalling boredom that I have faced for the past 5 days and I can’t stand it anymore. It’s like an abyss that sucks me in and drowns me. It’s killing me. I’d rather be dead by now instead of going through another boring and meaningless day on earth. Being alive is so overrated. Kill me please. Period.
