Incomplete Without
It seems only yesterday when I would figuratively tickle my uvula in hopes of barfing the right words for a project I was working on.
I was not even sure if I could do it right, if not exceptionally, back then. I was not even the first choice for the job. I was a second choice for it.
And now I'm holding it. I'm holding it my hands right now. The project-a 75-page souvenir magazine-that is worth the seemingly endless weeks of sleepless nights and extreme exhaustion from having to juggle it together with my new job, not to mention the more than four hours of travel to and from Cavite everyday. Call it cliche, but it was definitely a very rewarding sight and I couldn't have done it without the trust and encouragement I got from my immediate supervisors as well. The magazine was the tangible confirmation that I can, surprisingly, write.
To be honest, I have been so unsure if writing is what I really want to do in my lifetime. Journalistic writing in particular. Or perhaps a self-serving kind of writing. I tend to get lazy about it at times, mind you.
But when I intentionally veered away from it for a little over a year, thinking that I'm better off with another career, I realized that writing is what I am happy doing and I am incomplete without.
When I haven't written anything for a long time, the feeling is synonymous to my oxygen supply slowly being cut off that my brain eventually finds it difficult to function. Writing is akin to me going home on the weekends after a long stay at the dormitory. Writing transports me to the familiar and assures me that I am not traversing a solitary journey. The moment my pen touches the paper and the ink begins to converse through scribbles, I am freed from the clutches of my unspoken hodgepodge of emotions and curiosity.
I can't say I'm good with writing nor claim I'm meant to do it, but writing definitely makes me feel so sure that I am doing something right; it makes me feel like I'm home. This craft is definitely my therapy.