Burried alive

I'm beginning to believe that I have lost all my writing ability as well as the whole load of passion, inspiration, enthusiasm and everything else that comes along with it. It's becoming not so much of a writer's block anymore, but a sad case of being defeated by my own self. My mind heading in every direction, not allowing me to think straight nor to stay focused. And the pile of doubt I've accumulated by not having the courage to hoist myself up from the pool of complacency, monotony and just being so darn safe is gradually increasing in amount.

To be honest, I'm not even sure I recognize that young little girl who wrote all these previous blog entries whom had wondering eyes and a knack for doing things her way - not the 'Lady Gaga' kinda way, but her own. Simply because I have forgotten what it's like to write on impulse, to write to my heart's desire, to write according to my whim and fancy, to write with the guidance of my heart... and so the clichés go. If I can recall vividly, I doubt I had to do a lot of hard thinking to come with something to write because on many occasions, they all came as naturally as they flowed through my fingertips. I don't know if it's a slight case of Alzheimer's but I'm even beginning to forget if whether my brain functions better when I'm under an enormous amount of pressure or when I'm in a tranquil surrounding with a calm mind - either way, nothing seems to be working.

Before, whenever something struck in the recesses of my mind, I'd never hesitate to write it down on a sticky note just in case I forget, and then when I'm unoccupied and free, I'd usually elaborate it and work on it unto the extent it turns into something I'd myself would read and re-read over and over again and still be impressed. However, this doesn't happen so often anymore.

Then there are those days when my day-to-day companion; my muse, goes missing . In all honesty, I'm not even sure if I've ever had a muse, the kind other people could so easily depend on. If I ever did, my muse would have probably been the many relationships I've had in the past which left me with a combination of scars and lessons learnt.

I just recently finished reading The Zahir by Paulo Coelho. Before I closed the book and arranged it back on the shelf, I flipped through to find a page which I had marked for future references. One of the things he said was this: "When a reader reads a book you've written, a film happens in the reader's mind. Characters are given names and plots are created. If that doesn't happen, it defeats the purpose of writing the book in the first place." Note: I'm paraphrasing here, but whatever he said was similar. Then, as I carried on reading, I then stumbled on another one: "a writer can only write about his own life". And it got me thinking about my incapability to write about politics, the government, anything business related or anything that requires months and months of research because - and I'll admit it - I'm plain useless when it comes to that.

But then there's a light of hope that gets me thinking that maybe it's about time I stop sugar-coating the stuff I write, be it about love or life or people who can't seem to stop getting on my nerves; stop catering to what people want to read but instead write stuff that is raw and true with the guidance of my heart. After all, it happens to be the only way one can believe in what they write. Otherwise, who will be convinced when you can't even convince yourself?

I might have forgotten a lot about the dreams and ambitions the little girl I once was, had. I may also have forgotten in what state of mind my brain functions properly. And somewhere along the lines, I might even have lost myself; not knowing where to go, whom to turn to - sometimes I even feel burried alive and I'm kicking and screaming and no one can hear me.

But that girl, she'll be back. I just know it.