Featured
Maybe, I Cannot Write Anymore
Fading passion, for life and words
“All of our unhappiness comes from our inability to be alone.”
― Jean de La Bruyère
I started writing on Medium because I did not want to be alone.
I wanted to be heard, and acknowledged, and for people to be aware of my existence. This was a contradiction to my prior choices. I had spent years erasing myself, making my shadow smaller and my footsteps quieter.
I remember reading The Fault in Our Stars and like Hazel, I also wanted to disappear without leaving behind any trace of my existence. However, I found a very primal part of my system denied.
It reminded me of 2020, that lockdown period when my 17-year-old self would search for unique words on Google, read stories online, and smile when they got a happy ending. I would obsess over metaphors and dream of publishing my own stories one day.
My ghost reminded me of the times when fiction had made me feel at home.
I was compelled to write.
After a whole year of trying out different genres, from books to psychology to personal essays, and acquiring my first one hundred readers, my writing journey took me far. It made me feel a lot more accepted and helped me to tame the chaos inside me.
But lately, life has managed to make me numb and I am not sure how to create anymore. Creation is magic that feeds on emotions. My brain is in a fog and my magic is starving.
If this continues, I wonder if I can write anymore. There are so many things I want to write about: the books I have loved, the photographs I have taken, and documentaries on YouTube that have made me ponder for a long time. I started this account as a professional portfolio, but my heart won and I spilled my soul over these pages.
It might take time, but I want to come back to writing.
I want to return home.
Thank you for reading.
