Sometimes, I miss writing for myself, for the sheer joy and selfish enjoyment of it. Now, as I age and grow older, I realize that I have been missing out on the blissful diary days of high school and college when I had a pen for a therapist. Now I write because there are deadlines to be met, to-do’s to be done, academic discussions to be put on paper, nursing functions to be forever documented- lest they think we don’t do anything at all in a government hospital, you know. Hahaha.
I want to start something out of place and albeit out of the ordinary, considering my daily routine. I want to start writing again.
Because my boyfriend does not get paid to be my everyday shrink.
Because there can be never be enough adjectives for all the interesting things in life.
Because I feel sad for all the wonderful words that should have been written if they cannot at all be said.
Today I will call into being, the senseless, rambling soul of my old ballpoint pens, my intermediate school pads, my awesome memory, my calloused middle finger. And they shall be alive, resurrected again! Only this time, I will be kinder. In homage to the trees I killed for all the blank sheets of paper I ever wasted- I will leave the comfort of my own mottled, leather-bound diaries for the extreme vulnerability and utter boldness of the worldwide web.
And you will bear with me, won’t you?