sometimes the same wounds can hurt in entirely different ways. an injured wrist, a gnawing sense of incompatibility, mountains of work to clear (just to have an entire new load the very next day) and memories of the past that you don’t want to remember.
sometimes i like to remind myself that every once in a while, everyone feels this way. my feeling of this way is normal, so there’s no reason why i should be hurting this way. but it doesn’t help that the pain is still as vivid as ever, just as excruciating. and just because every one else too, is capable of feeling this way, doesn’t cushion the dull impact of an insensitive blow.
lately i have been rather overwhelmed by the series of events. for the first time in my life, i catch myself not hungry during after-training supper even though i just had a tough training. my wrist screams internally as i struggle to hold my chopsticks. physical pain is so excruciating but i shut up and move on hoping that it’ll recover the next day. the next day i could barely write because my wrist hurt so god damn much.
i hate how i can’t write fiction. all my writings are too personal. all my writings stem from the very fact that somewhere hurts. it’s like a remedy. writing is supposed to be a happy thing. you’re supposed to feel happy at reading your own work. i get compliments telling me that i can write, but sometimes reading my own work just hurts. why?
you know, this is a crap post. one can say that my entire blog is crap. it’s 6 years of accumulated bullcrap. my archives contain crappy reflections of my past, my blatant naïveté, solid evidence that remind me that i don’t ever move past from feeling this dull crappy ache. if i stopped aching i wouldn’t write. but i’m always writing because somewhere is always aching. it’s like pain constitutes 99.9% of my life. i might have become good at writing sad posts. but nobody wants to read sad posts. i am incapable of coming up with a piece of happy fiction. oh, no.
unfortunately, writing to me feels like the way my soul bleeds. this cripples the entire purpose of ‘keeping a leisure blog’. cuz it doesn’t work that way. i didn’t create this blog intending for it to be an accumulation of all my hurt. but this is what it is. a dump site of all my negativity. and with much, much, more to come in the (near) future.
how ironic, though, that i have come to enjoy writing. it comes quite effortlessly. like turning on a tap somewhere in my brain and all the words just come out naturally. does this mean that i am now a masochist who takes pleasure in experiencing this pain? then where’s this ‘good’ that philosophers preach? philosophers disagree over virtually everything but pain being bad is the one thing that most of them agree upon. where can i find this ‘good’ that isn’t all this pain?
stay happy.
; 