Writing has a way of releasing your emotions but it also has a way of eating you up.
When I was in college, I would write uncontrollably. I wrote notes or short poems during classes, I wrote when I was alone in the library, in an empty classroom, under a tree, in the Sunken Garden, in the lagoon; I wrote in my head when I’m with other people, and I wrote at night before I sleep. I was writing because it was all I could do to reach out and feel the world.
Now, I don’t write as much and I don’t think as much. I might have become slightly dumber academically but that’s fine with me. Real knowledge isn’t to be gained in all the lonely hours you spend with yourself with a pen and a piece of paper. That kind of knowledge can only be gathered from the real world where all the sweetness, pain, and at the same time, blandness of life can be experienced through interactions with real people.
The main purpose of writing for me now is venting. I vent all my sleepiness and bitterness in writing and style them as literary pieces which I could read and enjoy later. It still feels good to ponder the world while writing, but I’m done with filling whole notebooks with reflections.
Politics and philosophy also don’t attract me now as much as before. Curiously, when I’m heartbroken, I always rediscover these things. I rediscover the pleasantness of sitting by myself and letting my hand and my head go. I guess it just means that I, at least, don’t do this stuff because I want to be smart, but simply because I just don’t want to be lonely.
I found out though, that if one is not careful, the ink turns from a friend into a black blob monster which swallows you up until you can no longer walk the earth humbly and innocently.