damnatio ad bestias

You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing that we call 'failure' is not the falling down, but the staying down.
--- Mary Pickford.

                13 years ago, I thought that I would spent my whole life arranging words and putting my soul in every alphabet that they are made of. I used to dream of being a writer, the mastermind of the theories and surprises behind the ink-clotted pages ( well, I once thought that every book is handwritten ---- don't blame me.  Every book that I had when I was a child had writings all over it.. and it turned out that my cousin, who was a kindergarten teacher back then, used those books for her teaching materials and gave every book that she no longer use to me.) and being the one who determines people's feelings and imaginations just by spitting the words out of my mind. I had considered being a writer is my life goal, and it was a job worth living for.

 Indulging myself in that idea, I contribute almost all of my childhood time to write. I write all kinds of story -----  dreamy fairy tales, sappy love stories, not - even - scary horror flicks, and some times I wrote about my daily activities when I ran out of ideas. It all went well at first, even too well for my liking. Almost every person that I knew said that I had a knack in writing, and they look forward to see my writings in the future. Just like other little girls who were complimented for doing things they love, I was ecstatic, to the point that I finally made a promise to myself to never stop writing in the future.



But promises were made to be broken, right?


Being the only girl who was interested in writing rather than collecting new Love and Berry cards or playing dolls in my school, I had a hard time fitting in. While other kids are busy playing video games and talking about new toys that I never heard of, I sit on the corner of my classroom, reading today's newspaper I borrowed from my teacher or start writing in my journal. I even became the only kid in my grade to join the journalistic club. I couldn't engage in a fun conversation with other kids my age, because they thought that I'm boring. I remember feeling so alone, eyes flitting around the room, looking for someone to talk to. I just wanted to have friends, I spoke to myself. I wanted to be normal.

The most absurd thing about my story is I came to the conclusion that my tendency to read and write was the sole cause of my loneliness. I made up my mind, and decided that I would try to read less and stop writing altogether. Back then, I would do anything to fit in, including leaving my passion behind. At least, my effort is not futile. My peers started to notice me, and I finally get to gain friends, little by little.

However, I always feel that I'm not completely happy. My desire to write still burns inside my mind after all this time, wanting to be satisfied. I miss writing, and my mind have been telling me to pick up the pen that I left behind. Honestly, I have this fear of losing all the friends that I had because of my passion to write. In the same time, I have been missing out too much. What a dilemma to deal with, Geez.

After thinking about it through and through, I come up with a decision to write again. This time, I refuse to stay down again. I long for the taste of being the one that's in control. The one who creates. I have been neglecting things that I love the most for too long, and I guess now is the right time to start again. Well, this once, I hope I won't make another wrong choice and actually stick to my decision for a very long time.

So I hope you enjoy my writings ( Uhm, rants, to be exact ) and I guess I'll see you very soon.


--------Jen.