Impasse
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I’m done.
Writing those ten blogs was like plunging into memories of yesterday. Octavian is right. I had to write all about them. He said that was the only way for me to let go. He said that going through the bits and pieces of each memory would help me let go of them. He said it has something to do with reverse-psychology or whatever—I dunno. I just did what he advised me to do—if it means letting go of all those memories.
And he was right. After each blog I wrote, the memories became blurry until I could not remember them that much anymore.
I guess memories have their own magic of holding on… and fading in the background.
Now that this blog has done its purpose, I am wondering if I should continue with this.
Octavian said that I probably haven’t encountered a story I want to read yet, hence I do not have the calling and burning passion to write something. He said that those pieces I wrote before are not the ones I could call pieces of my heart. He said they were probably pieces that had to create during those times I was required to create them even though they probably emerged from my own moods and emotions. That, he said, is probably the reason why I do not consider myself as a writer even if I am a student of journalism. It’s an irony, but he said it is just normal. Whatever he meant by that, I’m not sure.
Once he told me that there are two kinds of writers—the ones who write because they can and want to write, and the ones who write because of that certain calling. He said that this calling is like magic—the kind of magic that creates a writer.
He said I probably haven’t heard that calling yet. He said I write because I have to (endless requirements, yeah) and because I can. He said I’ll know it in time—if I have this calling or not. And that would be the time I could truly assess if I’m a writer or not.
Right now, well, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about this blog, either.
All I know is that I am in the middle of something.
I’m in the middle of my journey, that is. And I have reached an impasse.
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