Fear.
It's this fear, paralyzing, that kept me from writing all this time. This fear that made me check my email a little too obsessively, to answer several Friendster surveys that asked the same old questions, to read news articles that normally I wouldn't have read (not that it's a completely bad thing). This fear I mask in laughter and I try to drown in happy moments. Good thing there's ScribeFire (yes a shameless plug)--at least I'm comforted by the thought that there's half-a-window of another site open.
And this fear's source I do not exactly know, nor completely comprehend.
Maybe because I am again afraid to make mistakes. That whatever I say or write be branded as shit by those I respect. I would rather be criticized by a thousand voices, loud yet anonymous, than be whispered spiteful words by a friend. And to write well, one must think; yet I am tired of this exercise. Because once you start, you have to end it; if you've ended it, you must've started it well.
Maybe because in this act of writing, I acknowledge the fact that I am again alone, like I was around a year ago whilst in the flurry of deadline-chasing. The main reason I write then was because I had no one to talk to, and with this, I acknowledge the fact that the guy that I used to share everything with had completely become a stranger, and all efforts to create a conversation have been futile.
Haven't I said that I'm moving on? And haven't we, just a few weeks ago and a few weeks after the break, treated each other as friends like the old times? Again and again I ask myself these two questions until they retrogress into incoherent ramblings, and slowly silenced by sleep. Unfortunately I cannot cry it off, just like I did the first, from which I have gone from without remorse.
What I get for being such a traitor.
Fear moves, mocks. When I, the dominant, has been silenced.
It's this fear, paralyzing, that kept me from writing all this time. This fear that made me check my email a little too obsessively, to answer several Friendster surveys that asked the same old questions, to read news articles that normally I wouldn't have read (not that it's a completely bad thing). This fear I mask in laughter and I try to drown in happy moments. Good thing there's ScribeFire (yes a shameless plug)--at least I'm comforted by the thought that there's half-a-window of another site open.
And this fear's source I do not exactly know, nor completely comprehend.
Maybe because I am again afraid to make mistakes. That whatever I say or write be branded as shit by those I respect. I would rather be criticized by a thousand voices, loud yet anonymous, than be whispered spiteful words by a friend. And to write well, one must think; yet I am tired of this exercise. Because once you start, you have to end it; if you've ended it, you must've started it well.
Maybe because in this act of writing, I acknowledge the fact that I am again alone, like I was around a year ago whilst in the flurry of deadline-chasing. The main reason I write then was because I had no one to talk to, and with this, I acknowledge the fact that the guy that I used to share everything with had completely become a stranger, and all efforts to create a conversation have been futile.
Haven't I said that I'm moving on? And haven't we, just a few weeks ago and a few weeks after the break, treated each other as friends like the old times? Again and again I ask myself these two questions until they retrogress into incoherent ramblings, and slowly silenced by sleep. Unfortunately I cannot cry it off, just like I did the first, from which I have gone from without remorse.
What I get for being such a traitor.
Fear moves, mocks. When I, the dominant, has been silenced.
