(I was surprised to have found this in my old files. I wrote this, as far as I could remember, shortly before I was accepted as a correspondent for a local daily, about more than a year ago, during my embarrassingly dramatic moments in life. I posted this in my now inactive Friendster blog.)
I am now afraid each time my mother gets sick. It would mean a painful outburst of words that would come slashing out at me or at my sister, and I will have to retreat to my own room for comfort or get away from it all. I am now afraid of my father whose moods I could not exactly differentiate with this day from yesterday. I am now afraid that my sister will grow up as boring as I am or as fearful of life as I am. Although we always make a mental note to keep our relationship in constant repair, I still am quite afraid to be late during a date with my boyfriend. I am afraid I will grow old with no friends to grow old with, save for Ruth. I am afraid of responsibilities, such that I may not fulfill them as I want them to be accomplished or as what others want them to be achieved. I am now afraid to take risks, for I have learned and experienced that life is tough and I have eventually submitted myself to being less tough than I should be; no longer eager, as I always was, to rise above my ordinary self. I am now afraid of change and how it might shook some things in my life to the point of blowing them out of proportion, in a state I would no longer have control of. I am afraid to lie, for these lies might come hitting back at me like a dart and I would say in the end, “Oh my, I didn’t see that coming!” Above all these fears is the newfound fear to write, which I unknowingly abandoned several months ago. I have burdened myself with other professional preoccupations that, in the first place, have nothing to do with my heart’s truest desires.
However, each time the sun announces another glorious day, I felt within me the rising sensation, almost too painful, that I will give a shot at purely literary writing in this brand new day. Each time the thought of having something significant to put in black and white, in pen and ink, would give my heart a full somersault of excitement. Yet here comes multi-tasking responsibilities for other people that I have to fulfill and in this daily process, I would just have to forget my yearnings for a while and try to enjoy what these responsibilities will teach me. Perhaps after work, I would tell myself. Ah, but at the end of the day, I would be physically burned out and I would likely be found in hang-outs to clear my head and chill out or on my bed, dead asleep with tiredness.
I am absorbed into another world where my only identification card to keep me down to earth is the rarely spoken dream of becoming a smalltime writer for the paper or for a publishing house. So many other people believe in my capabilities in leadership, in management, in production, and other talents that do not involved literary writing at all. Even my parents are trying, in their discreet way, to persuade me that I am very much secured on where I am standing now and I should not be impulsive on matters that will shake things a bit. Secured, yes. Happy, quite, especially with my boyfriend with whom I spent the best time of my life for the last eleven months and especially with a wacky sister and a circle of few true friends. Content? Well, I am still trying to get there. I mean, I have an A-ok cool job with all the benefits and perks an employee would dream of, my family and friends, so I’m cool.
So what more do you think I could ask for? The answer will lead us to my heart’s burning desire to return to writing, be it freelance or a hobby. Then get down to it, you would say. I have been used to writing for a deadline far too long that my system wouldn’t shake off the nasty thought that I need a deadline and a topic in order to write. In fact, blogs are not really my kind of stuff. But I guess all I need now is a positive mental frame that I need not afraid to write. Funny that I remember an awful time several weeks ago during when, hugging a pen and a notebook, I spent hours thinking of what I will write. I slept without even writing a word. I still have a few ounces of fear that I need to shed off my system. But, at least, I am not alone in this endeavor. I have a best friend who, I know, will keep pulling me back to earth and show me just how simply wonderful LIVING THE PRESENT is. And I have found God, to whom I committed numerous shortcomings that I dare not repeat them. And I still carry a dream with me that keep me alive, smiling and laughing everyday. I may be afraid of many things that I am beginning to wonder how much a psychological MATURITY test would cause me to determine whether of not these fears shrank me into another atrocious person. Silly me for thinking such unnecessary thoughts. Well, this is life, so why not as well NOT take life seriously. As Bugs Bunny would say, nobody comes out of it alive. He has a point. And I’ll take it. So help me. Help me, Bo. Help me, God.
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