This was really supposed to be a blog about books and the literary pieces I create. But apparently, what I really just managed to create is shit. Far from literary. And to be honest, I have trouble finishing reading books nowadays. It just was not like before. It is hard when I cannot write about anything. I cannot write because I always think that no one will read them anyway. But why write for anyone? I cannot write because, now, I am aware of the rules. I studied poetry for more than a year back in 2012-2013. And one thing’s for sure, I suck at writing. I get all the concepts but none of my teacher thinks I learned any of it. I am not just good at executing the lessons, maybe.
When I was younger, I would write because I feel like doing so. I used to write poems to my first love. But that did not work out too. He never read it. It does not really matter anymore. Like what I write will never matter to anyone.
After 2 years, now, I cannot write a fucking thing. They’re really all just confessions. Of how I fail and feel things. Sulking in the depths of suppressed emotions I am not willing to give up.
I do no write anything anymore. But then, I am thinking, who is to judge how someone is supposed to express her feelings? Who is to know if an experience is interesting enough to be put into writing? When I try to find answers, it ends with me realizing and admitting it: I am just bitter.
I do not read anything anymore. I cannot seem to focus. I don’t know where my old self went. I feel like I am supposed to be writing whenever I started reading. And so you see this circle goes on and on. I cannot get out. And so, as such maybe, I could start with opening it up.
And accept the fact, I should write regardless if someone’s going to read or not. Accept that no matter what happens, at the end of the day, what’s important is what I think of myself more than anything else.
Well, to be honest I don’t know how to end this venting out. So, yeah, so there.