Once more, I try my best to go back to blogging to be able to, at least, practice my writing skills, or whatever sliver of it that I have. It’s been, more or less, three years since I have written anything worth reading and I’m afraid that like any skill that is not constantly honed, mine would rust over time. That idea really scared me – it still does – and I guess it’s about time that I got up and do something about it.
Why wait for so long, you ask? Why didn’t I do something about it the moment the thought hit me? I should have been responsible enough to pick myself up and move on.
I don’t really know the reason. At the back of my mind, I guess I was using the “I’m-in-writers-block” excuse, yapping about how I’m gathering data when in fact, I simply stare at the blank page and feel bad about not being able to write anything. I have ideas, a lot of them, but when it came to writing it down, I was lost.
I simply stayed there, lying in mud and looking at that clear blue sky above me. Other people were soaring and I watched them as they did. I knew I could soar too but I chose not to. I stayed there, not taking wing, arms spread in mock flight as if I could fly just by thinking about it; I was waiting. For what? I don’t really know either. I just stayed there, feeling the mud, feeling its softness, the comfort. Did I rest? I don’t think so. You see, mud has a way of swallowing you. It’s a scary though and I submitted myself to that fear and let myself be swallowed but not enough to actually sink; wanting and yet not wanting to submit to defeat.
Inanity at its best for me I guess. Perhaps I simply wanted to experience it, that sick feeling of being dirty, that inability to fly and go where I please. I wasted time, I know. But that’s why I’m going to pick up the pace. Just like what I said, the mud is soft – smelly, but soft; disgusting, yet warm. And I guess I was going through a phase in my life wherein I needed the worst possible comfort. I found it in not writing, in depriving myself of the only outlet I know.
Why?
I’m going to smile again and say the words I’ve been saying for quite some time now, I don’t know.
Perhaps it was for experience, for the heck of it. But I can’t be too sure of that either. Everything has a reason and I have mine. I’m simply not able to understand it right now. All I know is, I want to fly again.
Writing for me – as with any other writer – is like breathing. I feel refreshed now that I’ve taken a really deep breath.
I know I can soar again.
