Often I glare at my screen, onto an empty screen — waiting for my fingers to start typing.
Some times it takes a while before the magic kicks in, some times it’s hardly ever that it feels forced. I find a title for my ramblings, tag the story, find the right image, and hit publish. In sets the anxiety, the wait, the fear, the voice inside my head screaming violently, “You won’t make it.”
Yet every time I do think of quitting, it’s like a drug that won’t leave me alone, it’s a mental itch I’m unable to scratch, it latches on, and I find my way back — rambling and writing.
Rise and Repeat.
The cycle continues as I search for what truly drives me, having figured out it’s the only outlet I do have to self-expression, for sheer-honesty, the illusion of believing that maybe someday this could be something I could do for a living.
I compare myself too much, refusing to give in to what is often “Popular”, because I’m stubborn and I simply cannot come to terms with willing to give up my voice.
My voice is all I have, to put it into words and shape it into a story is all I’m capable of.
There are skills that I’ve pursued and degrees that I’ve earned, that seem to have no meaning to them at all — for I could go on making a living off of it, it will never bring me the joy “writing” does.
It’s a tradeoff, I make for the time-being — in this pursuit of my dream which may never come to fruition as I do the things I hate doing to be able to do what I love.
Some times I even think to myself, what if it’s all for nothing, what if I’m just disillusioned by own perception of what I believe about myself and really there’s not much “good” about my work at all — and I sink in deeper to this hole I keep digging myself into, I simply cannot climb out of it.
Every time I say to myself, this is the last time — this is the last piece I’ll publish, I find myself back on this keyboard as my fingers find their place to the designated letters of choice forming words and sentences on this once empty screen.
I keep reminding myself, “…maybe you need to quit” — but it’s impossible.
It’s a paradox of pursuing the thing I love so much yet hating it at the same time, because there’s no guideline to remind me and there’s no mentors in this personal choice.
I keep grinding away at the jobs that I hate, in the pursuit of this endeavour I find myself in.
Filled with self-hate, and the inability to control my urge to keep writing, keep expressing, and keep publishing — no matter how bad I think it is.
No matter how badly it fails to get a response, I keep doing it.
I can’t seem to explain to myself why I’m in this endless pursuit, anyways.
Sometimes, time flows as though I’ve truly entered a dimension I am not longer in control of; when I finally take a glance at the clock to realise hours have passed by and I’ve just been writing.
It’s a lack of my inability to express myself, hence hiding behind this computer screen is only escape I do have of being to find my deepest of thoughts and be able to share them with strangers to read.
The thought of quitting the jobs I hate comes to mind, but I’m reminded “Kid, this isn’t a profession”.
Maybe not yet, and maybe not ever — but I keep pursuing it, for my own sake, for my own survival.
Because if not for this, I’d probably go insane in this current state of the failure to express myself.
To make writing my addiction, no matter the outcome — provides a relief, one that I’m unable to achieve anywhere else.
When it’s really all that I’m thinking about, even as I grind through my job — hoping to someday just walk away as a free spirit, and be able to rely on my thoughts and words to achieve complete freedom.
Until that day comes, keep on grinding.
Keep on writing until my fingers physically are unable to to do, but somewhere in my heart I know that even then I’d probably find a way; probably find a dictator to use as a crutch to protect and preserve, my only form of being able to survive in this world.