Temporarily Somewhere

The inertia to write, after stopping this long, becomes so great that it collides into a fear of having lost the gift to write. The things I can talk about seem to be an airy emptiness not worth putting down into words, because I feel that I no longer have it within me to phrase something or talk about anything that someone can feel for, relate to, and know that they’re not alone in their frailty.

Even using the word “I” requires consideration, with each “I” typed, a pause follows, which side of myself do I want to reveal now, if any is revealed at all. Why does it matter if I am only writing for myself, and not for anyone else. I guess it matters when I dig deep into my emotions and invest them onto paper, knowing that someone would go through these lines of thoughts, comforted by the knowledge that they’re accompanied in their thoughts.

Writing, like everything else, is a therapy of sorts. Every single activity that we engage in is therapeutic. Drug taking, praying, smoking, jogging, they’re all therapies for different individuals coping with the world. And writing too, is a therapy that provides such a surprise because I never know which direction I am taking, what I am going to talk about, or how I sound like.

Just as I didn’t know this would end up sounding guarded and tired. Suddenly, the image of huge plastic Chinese masks with enormous happy grins, the kind with black glossy paint filling those large grins appear. And I think positivity can be blinding sometimes, especially for the weary who wants to sleep and slip into a quiet kind of solitude, before appearing all smiles again.