Delusion

I have always thought of myself as a writer of sorts. Whenever I find the urge, I’d take a pen and write. Then one time when we were moving house, I went through my old stuff and found little notebooks and scraps of papers containing what I call writing. They are mostly musings on everyday life, a few poems, some lines of a would-be song and anything that comes to mind.

When I was introduced to blogging I thought, “This is it!” I finally have a venue for the writing that I do on a whim. You probably noticed that I kept referring to it as writing. Then I discovered all the other blogs of people from all over the world (huge, eh?) and all walks of life (just how many and how long could those walks be? Haha!). And it dawned on me how mediocre and simplistic if not pretentious my so-called writing is. Then I asked a friend to comment on my several entries and she said I sounded like I was angry at the world. The angst shows in my writing more than I’d care to admit. It did and she noticed.

So for a while I stopped. Not that I’d have cared to continue. You see, this writing stuff requires timing, inspiration and that special mood. To create something, it has to be at the right time, with the right prodding. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just putting much fuss into it when there are people who write when they’re told. Or when they write about just anything at anytime and they produce a material that you wouldn’t think contrived nor patronizing, that is what I should call writing. Now why do I refer to my scribbling as writing? I don’t know. Maybe for want of a better term. Oh, here I go again. The phrase my boss doesn’t want to hear from me.

Or maybe I’m being delusional into thinking this thing I do is called writing. At best, it’s a pastime, a hobby, a thing to get my mind off work and other trivial worries. Well, at least they are that rather than anything else. My only hope is that I can solicit a smile or a frown or some sort of reaction from the reader. Or that somehow, this thing they’re reading takes their mind off work and other trivial worries. That wouldn’t be delusional of me, would it?

poetry what?

The cold seeps into my bones
chilling my soul, dousing the embers
of my being

You watch from afar
comfortably nestled in your place
apathetic to my plight

Where have all your cares gone?
Who now basks in your warm embrace?

Slowly, surely I disintegrate
darkness closing in at the nearing dawn
I welcome the nothingness.

12/14/07
02:22 PM