My Unrequited Love

I swear

everything was going great today.

Like this good day wouldn't stand a chance to be ruined by anything. 

So I decided to start again.

On an empty canvas.

I can't remember the last time this happened

and I totally lost count on the attempts I've made thus far.

I ignored the sound of the clock ticking

Focusing on the blank sheet before me.

Words poured out and slowly I typed furiously. 

   

I was delighted upon seeing what might turn up this time

Anticipating the final work as  as my fingers slide across smoothly.

The possibilities I had were endless.

At the same time, I didn't want to give myself false hope.

It happened before and I knew the terrible feeling of disappointment very well.

So I kept going, choosing each words with care.

Planting them with much caution, one by one.

A tingling sensation at the corner of my heart reminded me of the fear I once had.

Somewhere within me, I know it's there.

The fear of not writing good enough.

It's not as good as I envisioned it to be.

It happened several times and it got me deleting all the drafts that I was working on for months.

Everything.

The thought of writing something that is not worthy enough to be read, even by myself.

Why bother publish it, when you yourself know that it's not good.

My lack of confidence haunts me. 

"Everything that I've written never satisfies me."

"Is this the best you can do?"

What came out of my head are often the negatives rather than the opposite.

Such thoughts made me delete every single thing that I've worked on.

My previous inspirations.

A thought I once had.

I can never retrieve them again.

Usually after this, I'll stop writing and just do something entirely different.

Probably something rather unrelated.

This may go on for days and even months.

So far, it has not gone up to a year.

Time flies.

Until one fine day,

I'll wake my laptop once again

when I want to share something I've worked on

or

when I want to remember something

or

simply when I feel like writing just about anything, like how this turned out.

I go through this cycle all over again.

 Hitting obstacles and blocks along the way.

Deleting here and there.

Figuring what should be in it and what should not as I didn't really want to reveal personal things.

I admit, I have had thoughts of deleting this blog for so many reasons, often unreasonable ones.

For one being my childish blog address that I can't seem to find a good replacement for it until now.

Despite all that, I've grown attached to this blog of mine.

A little writing corner that I could call my own.

Of which I create with the intention of writing things down so that I can remember them when my memory fails me.

A place where I am mostly the only audience who cares and reads about it.

Believe me when I said I've read my blog posts that I've written wayyyy back when I first started 

and I ended up laughing so bad because of how naive I sound 

and partly amazed at how easy it was for me to express my thoughts with zero filter.

Most importantly, I see myself improving so much ever since I started.

Although the frequencies fluctuates terribly.

Through all the pain and the battle (with myself)

these are the reasons why I just don't want to give up this place.

Given a second chance, I'd do it all over again.

Maybe with a clearer heart and to tell myself to not lose sight of what's important to me.

All for my unrequited love for writing.

***

So would you call this a soliloquy?

"The act of talking to oneself "

Would you believe it if I were to tell you that this piece started after reading a chapter from 

"Me Before You"?

No idea how it led from there to here.

This is rather a piece that I've written with a smile of my face despite the gloomy beginning.

One thing for sure, my inspiration usually takes the night train.

Love, Sara