I went home to retrieve what I had written and sent to Mr. N. I guess it wasn't too bad. I could see why Mr. N was pleasantly surprised and excited. I could imagine the stark contrast he saw between the style I employed in report writing and in reflections writing. Upon unearthing my so-called inner writer, Mr. N encouraged me to keep a blog to further hone and polish my "raw" style. I told him that I wasn't new to blogging and that I sometimes post insightful(or so I'd like to think) notes on Facebook. Furthermore, I used to journal when I was younger and have recently begun again, though keeping consistent has been problematic.
Because the problem with me is:
1. Journaling means handwriting my thoughts. My handwriting is ugly and when I see the ugly scribbles on my notebook, I get put off. I start to opt for shorter, simpler words to finish writing quickly or simply end the entry abruptly, disheartened at my lack of elegant handwriting. (Cos who'd want to read a journal with ugly handwriting, I'd moan to myself)
2. I think too fast. The words in my head stream in and out too quickly that my hands can barely keep up to capture the words on paper, thereby also ending my entries abruptly. Which is precisely why I toggle between physical and digital journaling. Typing words seem to be able to keep up with my barrage of thoughts.
3. I start off with a clear objective/subject in mind before veering off course and falling into an incoherent rant.
4. I have difficulty in expressing myself, specifically in choosing the right words to accurately convey what exactly I am feeling or what I want to say.
These problems almost always bog me down even before I make an attempt to write. It is a tremendous triumph to jot down even one complete, concise and coherent sentence. These problems come together to form the foundation of my fear and lack of confidence in writing. Plus also the fear that I have not a single original thought in my being.
And yet, when I put my mind to it, when I 'force' myself to reflect and ponder in order to squeeze out a piece of writing, I find that I am able, no matter how laborious the process was. When I muster the guts to share the piece with someone, I receive a proverbial "thumbs up" as on Facebook or in the case of Mr. N, a commendation. Perhaps I am capable of sparks of brilliance, judging by old entries scattered in my old journals, various blogging websites and social media posts.
In the end, I write not to be a writer nor do I seek praise. I write purely for myself, to be able to see my thoughts manifest in words, and not as mere wisps, fleeting and uncontainable. I write to capture that single noteworthy moment in my life that will certainly fade from my mind's memory. I write to return to myself when life gets out of control and I become momentarily adrift.
Now seems to be a good time to write. Especially this moment in time where I am experiencing a mid-twenties (though I'm considered early twenties) breakdown of finding purpose and direction.
A mid-twenties breakdown, as defined by Douglas Coupland's Generation X book:
A period of mental collapse occurring in one's twenties, often caused by an inability to function outside of school or structured environments, coupled with a realisation of one's essential aloneness in the world. Often marks induction into the ritual of pharmaceutical usage.
Ok, so I'm not exactly experiencing that, especially the drug abuse. But I do identify with the inability to function and aloneness. I guess this is part of growing up. That is, being unceremoniously hurled into new territory and left to determine one's path, armed with an education that seems paltry against the ever-changing world.
As such, I must write.
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