When writing isn’t enough
I want to write it all down—squeeze the contents to its last drop, hoping that I can capture and net down the feelings, events, people with words and let the words speak instead of me (because basically I am a shy person).
I thought everything will be all right after I brushed my emotions against the paper… But when people who know me started to ask questions I hoped were answered by my works, I realized that writing it isn’t enough.
Some offered good advice that if applied, could get me to him. I even met people who were in the same position where I am today, told me their stories and made me realize that I’m not the only one. Others asked why? I should have answered them, why not? The rest supplied me with what-ifs. No, don’t get me wrong; I know they’re just trying to help me with this foolish situation. I am stubborn and stupid, I know. But please do understand me. We’re all different, really.
If only I can let them feel what I feel by just a tap of my fingertip, sending the dreading pain, recurring hate, seemingly-endless agony that led me to decision of giving up, I don’t need to write it down anymore.
Let me be me. I’m a big girl now. No, they say. How will you know if you won’t try this and that; you’ll regret things one day. It’s a given— to regret over things that should have been. But I’ve decided to move on and nothing’s stopping me now. Because journeying through the dead trees and dark pathway of Moving On St., I learn more about myself and that I can handle my life.
And this is how I handle my life— with, not through, writing.
