I've been in hiatus of writing and seems now I could hardly write. Perhaps one of the setback for not practicing the art that I've studied in. To be fair though, I'm not really a good writer. I just like to write. Or should I say, used to like writing, because now, it no longer comes first in mind whenever a good subject matter arise.
To sugar coat it though, this I prefer. I read in the book of the great author, Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light: "Without love, the warrior is nothing." And right now, well perhaps for quite a long time, I hardly feel it. But what is this love? Perhaps I'm no longer into writing anymore. Yet, I am certain that I am.
The vivid dreams that I'd see, feel and to have existed in, all of them makes me alive. I wanted to tell it to other and yet words which to describe them, that I am used to using, doesn't apply. Yes, I know that I need to read more, but that doesn't justify the passion I had then when it comes to writing.
Perhaps I've grown up and the me of the past, the kid full of enthusiasm of writing everything, of recording things unimaginable, from the silliest to the greatest, have all disintegrated, have washed up or like an oasis in the middle of the desert, have dried up. Do oases even dries up?
What were my dreams back then when I was studying the art of words? Was it to inspire? Perhaps. Wasn't it a very common dream? Well, yes but it sure damn is nice to have a dream as that. What else were my dreams back then? Funny, I could hardly remember.
I enjoyed those time though, the times when I was still learning things. I'm not yet done learning with the arts of words. I still enjoy understand new and new things but... the practice of this study have right now left me. I could write no more. Again I will return to that phrase: "Without love, the warrior is nothing." Am I a warrior to begin with?
It's funny that if in case a past self of mine would feel how I'd feel, I would certainly breakdown. But now, I feel numb of it. The empathy I feel for the art of words have now turn to apathy. I know I hate it but I feel numb about it. I seemed to have failed my mentors, well, I don't know if they're truly aspiring me to be great at the endeavors I chose.
To be on point, though, with the probable problems I'm facing: I have lost that drive that pumps in my writers vein to keep writing. Yet the pulse in my dreamers heart is still beating. And it is true, the dreams I have every time I sleep are becoming more and more vivid. My sleeps feels longer though most of the time they're short. I'm happy with it, but not much complete. I want to write, I want to share it with other and I really want other to see, feel and perhaps exist in the same dream that I tell them. I just wish that I could still write.
If you'd ask me why I not just write... to answer that: I'm having a hard time writing. I... ...
If I think more of it, it's funny that I can't put it into words. Perhaps hesitation or perhaps something else. I know what it is only I can't put it to words... Why I'm hesitating? I don't know.
Really really out of the blue: Hey!! I like that sentence I just wrote, "I have lost that drive that pumps in my writers vein to keep writing. Yet the pulse in my dreamers heart is still beating."
Well, whatever it is I still want to write. As the old saying goes, "Try again." This I don't know who said but I like it.
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