I started this blog worrying that I would not have enough to write about. I never seem to think or feel very much about anything, compared to most people. I also worried that I would regret my writing, should I say something overly emotional, or offensive, or just plain silly.
But I ended up never having a shortage of things to say. They say reading is like conversing with a friend. I reckon writing is the same. Except that friend is yourself, the deepest part of yourself, the part I thought only other people had. I realise now, that there is magic in words. For when I write I never end up where I intended to go. I learn new things and discover what is hidden. I am comforted, amused and inspired.
Not that I love my writing. Indeed, I don’t like it. It is at best, juvenile, and at worst, just plain weird. Reading my writing often seems to me like listening to bad pop music – it all sounds the same.
But I do not despise my writing. I cannot appreciate my posts as pieces of writing, but I appreciate them as pieces of myself. They are as much a part of myself as my body or my voice or my mind. And we must learn to love ourselves, however much we might want to change. In self-expression, the shades and patterns of meaning that emerge are unique only to us. That is also why I must remind myself to appreciate other people’s thoughts, even if I don’t agree with them. For the colour of the thought that is expressed is unique to the person’s heart, and can never be replicated
I tell myself now not to worry about previous posts that might have been a tad bit strange. Strange or not strange, they are still reflections of what I was at that point in time. We must value what we were as much as we value what we are and what we can be. Though the first is often the most difficult thing to do.
I somehow ended up writing a lot more emotionally than I ever intended to. I would like to assure my friends that I am as much myself as I ever was, perhaps even more so than ever. Here, where I have been released from both the burden and the comfort of the mundane. If I am sad, it is not a complicated sadness. It is actually simple. It is that deep central emptiness that haunts every man. Most of my days are good days, and I don’t feel it too badly. But bad days do come, days where I feel I might be going a little mad. But perhaps, it is those days where we feel like we are going mad that we are actually becoming sane.
I started writing not really knowing what I was writing for. And I’m still not really sure what I am writing for. But it has brought me closer to myself. I’m grateful to everyone who has dropped me a message to encourage me, or liked and commented on my posts, or just stopped by to read them. Here on this rainy night, conversing with myself on Microsoft word and filled with a mixture of self-doubt and self-amusement again, I feel like I have only been given too much to treasure, from the hands of those who love me.
“My father never talked to me, except when we studied together. He taught me with silence. He taught me to look into myself, to find my own strength to walk inside myself in company with my soul.”
~The Chosen, Chaim Potok