Clarity. My mind feels exceptionally clear tonight.
I am trying to figure out what it could be that is contributing towards me feeling this way.
Perhaps it's the brief church retreat that I just attended?
Or is it the rather exquisite coffee that I just drank earlier this evening?
Then again, could it just have been the after effects of good company?
No matter the reason, I am here now. In a familiar posture with my trusty laptop in... well, my lap... and my fingers poised for a few good hours (perhaps) of typing.I am all set to get going and to start writing some unfinished articles for work.
I do not really look forward to doing this.
There is a whole mess of data that I need to sift through and arrange into neat little sentences in order to create a respectable draft. I'm not sure sometimes whether having lots of information to process is more maddening or whether it is worse had I not had enough to work with. Either way, it is (at times) such a tremendously taxing brain exercise.
I'm still pondering all those competitions I could join and the side projects I could do. I feel as though I am lacking energy to do all that. But those are the real goals that I want to achieve, far above the constant churning out of articles just for the sake of commitment and deadlines. I hope I don't end up sidelining them till life passes me by and I find no great meaning in writing and all I end up doing is churning out article after article passionlessly.
That would be sad indeed.
I do not want to be found writing without passion. Without meaning to my words. Without caring for the effect it will trigger in my readers. Writing is just as much an art as sculpting or painting is. I want my words to be deliberate. The message clear. Creativity oozing out of each word and bursting at the seams by the end of each sentence.
I don't really know what I'm saying. I guess I should stop dawdling here and begin chipping away at the actual tasks I have on hand.
I will be back, hopefully soon. Till then... have yourself a good new week.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Clarity. My mind feels exceptionally clear tonight.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, despite my snail like tendencies, I do endeavour to keep as many promises as I can, and I know full well that I still owe you blog readers of mine a few missing posts from the A to Z April Challenge (it's already JUNE! *wails*) so wherever possible I will attempt to fill in the gaps.
For this post, I take on one of the more obscure and yet formidable of alphabets: the letter Y.
I spent most of my evening and night today clearing out and sorting my stationery drawer in my bedroom. In the process, I uncovered various treasures and memories from yesteryears - some of which I fondly recall, others which I don't even remember at all.
It's so easy to leave our yesterdays behind, and to forget all too quickly the value they have added to our lives and the lessons we have learned and should remember at the right times in our present days (so as not to repeat the same old mistakes).
One thing I especially cherished about my past was the ability I had back then to write poetry. That is not to say that I can't muster up a verse or so now, but it's not quite the same, or as somewhat prolific as I was in times past.
Perhaps it had something to do with the turmoil of youth? One thing's for sure, now that I'm in my late twenties, I am a whole lot more secure about who I am and who I am not than I was in the not-too-distant teenage years of my life. I recall the intensity of emotions back then were quite often the reason I turned to poetry.
I wonder what does it say of me now, though... Does this mean I have lost the ability to appreciate and come to grips with my emotions (and to deal with them accordingly) as I had during those times? I find myself less composed and more impatient now (surprisingly) than I remember being in those years.
I wonder if it has anything to do with me venting through poetry or rather, the lack of it, as this is something which I don't do at all nowadays.
Maybe it's time I revisited the habit of poetry writing. Hopefully this time, the depth in the thoughts and the themes will resonate with a greater sense of maturity than what they used to. That it will be an onward march into better quality poems that I can proudly share with everyone else around me, as opposed to having to feel sheepish about how they were written or how they sound.
Anyhow, I will share with you an old poem which I found today as I conclude this post. Hope you like it.
Sometimes in a stranger's kindness
Or in the fading flower's beauty
At other times amidst great chaos
And sudden calamity
For some in peace and quietness
From contentment and tranquility
Often unveiled for pure innocence
Yet occasionally afforded despite shame and adverse blasphemy
The beauty in the ever present sky
The promise of another day
Ever lingering hope
At times disregarded
Irritably forsaken along the way
But heavenbound hearts cannot be dampened
And faith not so easily strayed
Whenever time is salvaged
And still enough for comtemplated wonder
Room for just a tiny glance
Glimpses into the beckoning eternity
1 October 2005
Saturday, June 11, 2011
I have been wanting to write, but feel as if I am paralysed whenever I actually try getting round to doing so.
With the exception of work (which is a must-do thing if I want to continue receiving pay cheques every month), I feel as though I am somewhat hindered from writing the stuff I want to write.
Well, technically there's nothing to stop me from writing, like what I'm doing right now. But I can't seem to muster any form of useful inspiration, and I keep myself from actually writing more and more often because I consider all times that I really did write, and feel horrible because I remember that the results of it were not very good.
I wonder how I could have ever written any form of entertaining fictional pieces in the past to the extent that those in my social circle could actually compliment me on it. In fact, I can't quite comprehend why anyone would have wanted to read the stuff I wrote at all.
Maybe it's just a rough patch of me not enjoying my work and in essence it's just another dry spell that will blow over at some point. Or perhaps my creative writing skills are coming to grinding halt - something I fear, yet often feel powerless to prevent.
I must admit, I have been entertaining thoughts of writing non-fiction stuff just to get a book published (one of my major life goals). And so I've tried writing opening paragraphs and chapters and what-have-yous.Later on, when I re-read what I've written, I feel terribly uncomfortable and extremely disappointed with myself. Am I forcing myself to write something that's not me, I wonder?
But everytime I try cracking my brain for some kind of imaginative plot that can serve as a starting point for a novel, I keep coming up empty. The very thought of writing anything fiction involving more than one chapter just completely scares me. I've tried it before and the ideas I have normally end up getting all tangled up in my mind and the entire episode will end with me completely abandoning the story.
Could it be that journalism is slowly wiping all traces of creativity out of me? That in the pursuit of hard, cold facts I have forgotten how to dream and forsaken the poetic license that allows me to bend time, space and the universe for the sake of a well told (fiction) story?
I feel defeated for some reason. And at the same time, I feel like even my emotions are unfounded. That if I so much as breathe a word on how I actually feel or what thoughts are actually coursing through my brain, I will be immediately rubbished off and told for the gazillionth time that I am being too emotional or just plain silly.
I even hesitant to compose blog posts. I can't even complete the missing blog posts for the already stale April Challenge. At least during my university days I could still write about real life or what I felt about whatever I was going through, but now even that feels worthless.
I somehow have it in my head that any outburst of emotions or articulation of thoughts on my part will result in me inadvertantly killing off the interest of blog followers in reading my blog, hence slowly but surely causing the number of them to dwindle until a point where there is no one left anymore to read what I post here.
I feel illegitimate. I feel inhibited.
I am tempted to believe that I have nothing good left to say - no more brilliant ideas nor fascinating philosophies nor riveting tales - to offer the world. That perhaps the passion that once sustained me and kept me writing is fading fast. It scares me to think about what will happen should it disappear altogether.
It's almost as if I've lost something precious, and that in losing it (whatever it may be) I have somehow lost the ability to be profound, to write things of value, to make sense and resonate with my readers.
It is baffling to analyse endlessly of what the thing you didn't know you lost is. Or the fact that you're not even sure that you had lost something in the first place.
Ah well, at least I haven't lost my morbidity.