It's 3 AM-ish and I’m feeling nostalgic.
The last time I consistently slept at midnight was in college— some nights were dedicated for school and most were for my musings. Either I’m writing or I’m typing, it always has to be at par with what my mind is blurting otherwise, I’d be frustrated for not being able to properly convey my feelings in the way I am most familiar with.
And I can’t believe I am doing it again years later.
Writing has always been my sanctuary. For some reason, it kept me sane. It was the only self-expression I'm probably capable of that I've had entries for my blissful, gloomy, shattered, smitten, and whatever-you-can-think-of days. I could still remember the gush when a topic would suddenly pop in my head as I'm busy with something, or when I'd weave a good sentence out of nowhere and I'd frantically draft it in my primitive phone so I could incorporate it in whatever I'm going to write about later on. At that time, it was very liberating for me to produce write-ups out of my introspection especially because I had no one to talk to and I was told that I write quite well. Although my fastidious self would struggle curating my stories from time to time, it helped me hone my craft while enjoying it. Clicking the "Publish" button would always make me happy as well as having positive feedback from people who came here to read. It was probably my peak?
Now, it's more of an achievement. My post count dipped and I'm really saddened that I haven't moved on from my massive writer's block. A lot has happened since those sleepless nights and I haven't written anything about them yet all because I can't put stories into words like I used to. Oh, and work kept me busy that I think one or two entries a year would suffice. Again, I am a perfectionist and I can't even surpass my own standards. Guess I'm the problem, eh?
Or maybe this year, I can be better. I hope I can be better.
