A CONFESSION: I can’t write.

There, I finally got it off my chest.

It’s been a long time since I have written a real blog post, months in fact, to think that I have had this writer’s block way waaaay back. Yeah, I have been in denial for so long. And I have been denying my denial for as long as that.

Waaaay way back, before I had this long-standing writer’s syndrome, I could easily write words if I get hold of a pen and paper or keyboard or cellphone or any  paper considered as scratch.

Now, every night since last year, I painstakingly look at my journal and just stare at it long while thinking what to write and how to write it. I end up crying most of the time.

I  blamed senior’s syndrome on the early part of last year. I have a feeling that almost every senior would experience the kind of dilemma, to feel sooo insecure of what’s to come, to feel so incapacitated and yet feel so compelled of moving forward, moving on even if you feel you’re not yet ready.

Life is really filled with ironies.  Because when I at last felt the urge to write, I also felt guilty for all the days of struggle (to graduate) undocumented and feel as if what I’m going to write is lesser than what I could have written. All the feelings I’ve had dissipated in the air. I fell in the endless cycle of wanting to write but having no itch and having the itch and feeling not good enough or guilty enough to have let things pass me by.

I guess this is a kind of compulsion for someone with a journalism degree. Once armed with an information, an idea, a story, writing should be done immediately, regardless of the existence of inspiration, urge, itch, the force, whatever. Or else, what could have been written will turn out stale, useless, passe (well, unless I could get away with recycling it, and it’s of bad taste).

AND then life became even more ironic. Because what I had thought was already the biggest pre-real world trial turned out to be just a prelude of the prelude. Life happened. I was jolted awake with the “real” world on my back just like Atlas of the Greek mythology, the difference is I have to fend off the nuclear bombs thrown at me.

The text  above was started on January. The subsequent paragraphs were continued by Feb, March until May. And as it is October (gasp!) already, it seems like I was spending a year to write just a single blog post.

I realized that I really missed writing.  I miss having to post my thoughts on real-time without preparing any drafts. I miss channeling my rage, my dreams, a part of me, on this cyberhub. Yeah, I post occasional rants and whines on Twitter, but it’s not the same as writing without a 140 character limit. Yes, I still write on my journal but it’s filled with “news accounts” of my dreams, daydreams and nightmares. I miss my blog and I miss the blogger in me.

So I have decided at last to think why I have to continue writing.

I write because writing has always been in my bloodstream. And if I’m not going to let thoughts flow thru pen or keyboard, they will find other bloody ways out.

I write because writing helps me rationalize my thoughts, because it makes me feel human.

I write because when it’s stormy inside me, I have to let it out or I’ll be consumed by my own rage.

I write because when it’s raining inside me, my friends are not always there to be rained upon. And when it is sunny, I feel obliged to make things brighter.

I write because I am groping in the dark and I noticed that people are, too. And if writing lights my own little candle, it is hoped that this could make even one soul light his or her own, too.

So I have another confession. I can write, but not without worries of another writer’s block or another bout of laziness or another paralyzing cataclysm (God forbid).

I can write and I have me in the offing… 🙂

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