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I have this habit every time something remarkable has happened or made me feel down. I find it hilarious to even think that I need to jot down this ugly experience while I bawl my eyes out in secret. All the time, I have interpreted my sadness as a prompt that needs a little bit of a story. It fuels my writer's mind and it calms my sweating heart. To feel better, I have to write it down because I just cannot say it to anyone. I can't be read by people. It's like I appeared to be a closed book, with its keys thrown to the depths of the ocean waters.
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It happens when I argue with a family member, have a row of academic disappointments, or just lump sometimes about life in general. Either of these things that will make me cry, I can't help but resort to writing about what a suffocating feeling looks like. When I was a kid, way before I had owned a mobile device, I used to write in big notebooks. I still have those bunch of worn-out papers. But now, I usually type in everything in my Keep Notes, I have entrusted my thoughts in there. Certainly, in the middle of my tears, I would think of dialogues like, “You better make a scene out of this ugly crying.” or something similar to, “Oh, you must be sad... Write it as a character and make it hurt double, then.” just to console myself because I cannot afford it from others. It's silly and therapeutic at the same time as I look back at those moments.
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But you know, something about ridiculous things costs a painful one. I must admit that however, I make fun of such a thing, I'm almost always writing out from my tears. And it all goes down to me and my toxic ways of recovering. Often we know, a common healthy way to self-care is a must to have that one person you can always share anything with. Humans are made for each other. But I think I am not for that kind of connection. Now I won't say that I'm entirely alone because I have friends and a family to talk to. But it's in me, my inner demon that says I should just keep it to myself because I will have to regret it later on. That's maybe why I have developed this habit of just being silent but I'm pouring everything through words as if they were clattering metals in my head.
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I think maybe I'm immune to enduring and seclusion. I cannot imagine myself being feeble for pent-up petty things to someone who is certainly suffering heavier than mine. This has made me sturdier than the walls I built in front of people. I'm just kind of lucky to have found a place in writing because if I hadn't, I would have been insane. I don't even want to know. But I still believe something about being the first one to grow up adds up to our complex of having to be needed all the time. So you get that you have no place whatsoever to ask the same thing from anyone. Others have found a better way, I found mine in making something matter through words. Often, this is why I write and why I'm still sober despite keeping my thoughts shut in.
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Perhaps if you're a kid out from a home of invisible affection and only acts of service to keep the love intact, you will grow with it. I think I have grown from it as well and find it arduous to even try talking about my heart with anyone in the family or tell what's in my mind. I don't know if it's the superior eldest card kicking in or I'm just built differently. Either way, it's not something to be proud of but then, I can always try to at least write it little by little. And heal from it bit by bit. You can tell how writing things out works for me both in life and on the poetic side of the world. It's my lifeline.
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And it's always the tiniest things that trigger me to do this. You know, piles of it in a frustrating place. As if all your worries were stacked up one by one. And if they fall, you still have to do it all over again. The only gap every time I write is just a wish for my senses to come back to me whole. Because I get to think and meditate, and amidst those all, I have hoped to be fine once I put an end to what I was scribbling. It's equivalent to a human companion having to fill up pages with words I cannot easily say.
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But you know, it doesn't work for everyone because we define our ability to write through what feel. Just that alone, makes us distinct. It sparks a different light in your head out of from what you suppress. How about you? What's a habit of yours that makes you so eager to write?
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A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. She is a listener of music and is currently drowning in the rhythm of her pop-punk playlist. And she reads too, either depressing or hilarious books. Words from MJ, btw.
Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!