Enough

These days I could probably nod and tell you that yes, I am happy; I am content. What with everything that has taken place recently, I can’t help but wonder if there was any other way I could have learned the things I have. I wrote somewhere in journal entry a few months (or weeks) ago – can’t remember – about how empty and barren I felt for not doing the things I once loved doing. And as much as it defeats my pride to admit it, this feeling of emptiness and barrenness happens to have an upcoming sequel although this time, rather slightly subdued. I used to read a lot of blogs back in the days when my course in college was still being contemplated; I’d keep tabs on those blogger’s updates and would, without a doubt, always find a way to at least scroll through to what they have to say. Along the way, instead of being true to myself and sticking to my style of writing, I lost sight of that and ended up trying to write like those bloggers. Simply because I thought that they wrote a million times better than I did; I thought that their way of words captured the hearts of more followers and readers than I did; and I also thought that I wasn’t good enough, that the way I wrote didn’t reach my optimum level of satisfaction. I was so full of a mixture of inspiration and ego that I refused to settle, having in mind that their style of writing was what I needed to opt for, was what I needed to achieve. But as all wrong turns would finally lead you to the right one, I found myself. I don’t read as much blogs as I used to anymore because I find myself always fighting for time (and with it) but every once in awhile, when I do, the urge to write the way they do doesn’t flow through my veins anymore. I don’t feel the need to plagiarize and neither do I intend to. And from this, I’ve come to accept the fact that whatever I do or in this case, whichever is my style of writing, it’s enough.

I’ve also come to accept that I am enough.