starving artist

I feel so wasted…

I don’t know if this is just an effect of the Holy Week on me but plans and dreams seem to blur day after day. Everyday, I clean my reading glasses to get rid of fingerprints and dust and to see a "cleaner" view of what surrounds me but the cleaning doesn’t help clear the blur. And with this, I feel so wasted…

"No, you’re not." People would always say that to me– that I am not wasted. They just say that because they are binded and blinded by what they see and hear about me— graduated cum laude, got accepted and worked in a famous national company, a writer, an artist, and stuff like that. Despite these so-called achievements that they believed make me a winner, they still don’t know even an inch of me.

To graduate with honors gave me hope that I will reach my other dreams (as I only took my college degree because of a bargained scholarship). It was also the reason why I tried my luck in Manila a month after graduation. And to be accepted in a recognized national company increased my desire to even go further with my dreams. I even programmed myself to believe in myself. But all of these lasted only for months.

The excitement went down. The passion burnt out. Dreams faded away like how I see the world without my glasses. Blurred.

I would like to make myself believe that I am worthy of what I have achieved but this emptiness in me is always present— before, during, and after the triumphs in my life. "Maybe you’re not satisfied," a friend told me before graduation. And it stabbed me real hard, left me bleeding up to now.

To be satisfied is hard, especially when you see your dreams falling apart; when you see that your past decisions were wrong; when the company you’re dreaming to work with rejected you; when the course you wanted to take is not available in your place; when you can’t pass your articles on time; when you found out that your loved one found another; when an acquaintance is far successful from you; when you realized that you need another job to feed your bank account and insurance plan; when you get a clearer picture of you— you, unsatisfied.

I covered this emptiness with the bronze medal I received but the wound is bigger than its size so blood still gushes out. I clothed this emptiness with excellent corporate attire but the run on my stockings makes the emptiness vulnerable, only sizing itself to the next level. I tried to sketch and paint this emptiness with watercolor but it only recognizes the color black. I tried to stuff this emptiness with words, sentences, and paragraphs; it choked it out.

I entered my emptiness and tried to put things into right perspectives. As I reviewed my life entries for the last four months, I heard a familiar voice say, "Try again."

I looked around and saw the dreamer in me.

"Try again," she whispered. She  was dying.

I looked at her again. Her teary eyes met mine. I couldn’t control the tears from welling up; all I can do is wipe it as one smoothly slides down my face.

They say if you’ve had enough, just cry it out as tears will wash the pain away. But like water running through an open wound, tears only sting this emptiness in me.

And I still feel empty. So wasted.

(I tried to reread the Desiderata for Literature that I wrote two years ago, hoping I can regain some of my sanity back… But the pill, the lit I mean, doesn’t seem to have an instant "wake up" effect on me.)

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007 at 7:47 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.