As an amateur writer, I had got the teeny weeny amount of spotlight that I needed with people’s appreciation towards my work. I enjoyed writing, making up compositions, playing with words and making everyone’s grey matter jiggle up a bit; but most importantly, I wrote to express my feelings and express my heart.
The writing was not just a hobby, it was a need. It was my outlet from the reality, my Hogwarts Express to Neverland. As an amateur writer, I thought, “Boy, I’m going to write good and I’m going to write great, and let my words mend hearts and lend a voice for suffrage.”
Little did I know that there will come a day when the pen would be in my hand, but the ink wouldn’t flow; there would be a keyboard in front of me and I’ll sit staring blankly at the screen, what to write, I don’t know.
It has been 3 days since I’ve written something, and I guess, I realised today why I can’t write anymore. I think it’s kind of ironic, writers write to get an outlet for their pain, their hurt, and all the unexpressed emotions but I chose to not write anymore so that I can keep you within me and exclusively for me.
Yes, I’m selfish and that’s why I stopped writing. I wanted to keep you within me, whether you stay in my heart or my mind. I didn’t want the world to know how and what I felt about you. I stopped writing because if I write (and that’s something I would naturally do) I’d be sending off the remnants that I have of you.
I don’t want the world to know that I cry at night looking at your pictures or that l have a reminiscent smile whenever I see a girl pull a guy’s cheeks. Neither do I want the world to know the pain I went through (read: going through) because of the void you left me in.
I want the world to see and believe that you are still that person I fell in love with. I want the world to remember you as the person who made me smile and made me happy and not the one who broke my heart and tore me apart. I want the world to know that we still are very much in love; because maybe our fate is to be together on paper and not in reality.
Thus, this selfish, love-struck writer stopped writing.
LIMITLESS 