And as I was revisiting some books in my shelf in between those lazy moments, I suddenly came across this:
|Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage|
I also remembered having similar thoughts like this in the past. This was from almost 2 years ago:
It hurts me to face the fact that words don't really come easy just when you need them. I've always wanted to share this, but somehow, anything I say or write isn't enough. The sad realization is that sharing something so dear to you, so close to you is like exposing a part of you that you could never afford to put out in the open.Well, yeah.
The thing is I am undergoing something not strictly pleasant right now. And no matter how much I don't admit it, or better yet, offer myself consolations just to lessen the casualty -- one thing still remains, and that's the fact that I was deeply hurt. I may feel more stupid than hurt right now, but that doesn't change the fact that I felt pain.
Acting indifferent, or better yet denying it even happened was the shortcut to (almost) forgetting it altogether. Because that's what you do. You deny and deny, you (try to) forget and forget. That's the start to moving on. That's the start of getting a life outside of it. But in reality, it's not. You stop acting on it, but your mind doesn't. Every night you lie there, with your head propped in that soft pillow of yours, and then your mind would wander -- to that. Every single time.
But really, I am not sure if I'm even making sense at this point. There are moments when I imagine that if people could see what's in mind, they'd see something like this:
See that? Why explain when you, yourself, can't understand? A jumble of ideas not making sense. Struggling to ooze out of you mind. And the sad reality was: you can't even let it out.
I used to be that girl who bleeds and vomits -- translating every feeling into words, writing them. In the past, writing has been a really effective way of taming my thoughts. When it goes wild, I write. When it's too much, I write. When I can't understand myself, I write. And now, I'm not even sure how.
There were moments (and believe me, there were many) when I was so ready to type it all out, but then when I was faced with this blank canvass, I hold back, I try but nothing comes out. It's not a case of writer's block, if you call it that -- because I don't feel like there's nothing to write. It feels like the opposite, rather. There's so much going on, I don't even know what to pick up. And in the end, I wasn't able to write anything down. It's almost scary.
It's so easy to use "I've been busy" as an excuse, but sadly, I am not. Honestly speaking, I drowned. I drowned on my thoughts. I drowned on my emotions. And in the end, nothing came out. I was close to overflowing, but it didn't even spill -- imagine the feeling.
Just like now. Right at this moment, when I stopped writing that last paragraph, I had the urge to just delete everything that I've typed at that point. But I am choosing not to, because I know this will amount to something more.
I want to go back to being that girl. Expressing without fear of judgment. Continuing on even if the narrative feels disjointed just for the sake of letting it out. Exposing, once again, a part of me to anyone who cares to read on.
I think there's courage in being vulnerable. I want to be brave again.