Dear Diary... It's been a while. How have you been? My writing, in its purest and most personal form, has taken the backseat for a few years. I didn't think the journey would be this long but it was. It came with so much introspection, unlearning, rediscovering and soul searching. There were no maps or signs. Not even any directions or a random stranger to ask help from. But I'm here now and while I'm not sure if this is home, it sure feels like it. I feel like myself more than I've ever been and isn't that comforting? Home? Home.
If I were to make a list of reasons why this blog took on a far longer hiatus than I planned, it'll boil down to these:
1. I wanted to explore... heed the call of my other curiosities. Writing will be my first love but I'd be lying if I say I'm not drawn to art, design, and film. If I were not to scratch that itch, when?
2. Work happened and I accidentally found myself doing something... a lot of things that I love. One too many it feels overwhelming at times but gratifying too and once I realized that I was doing something that I deeply cared about, enjoyed and believed in, I took a really deep dive. Simply put, I got busy. Really busy. Happy busy.
3. I wasn't ready to revisit some memories. My travel backlogs even go as far back as 2016. I've parted with people, some I've mourned for while others I'm glad to have lost. History is a tricky thing, isn't it? And so is nostalgia. Some days it hugs you like a warm blanket on a rainy day but it can also feel like putting disinfectant on a fresh wound. Ouch.
4. I held back on feeling and deliberately stopped emotionally investing in people. But the thing with numbing yourself from the pain, you'd numb yourself from the good things too. If there's one thing about me and my creative writing (prose and poetry), I tend to pull from strong and deep emotions (real or imagined, mine or a somebody else's). But with my self-administered anaesthesia, my fingers no longer knew how to write or match those rhymes.
5. If I were to be completely honest, I’m scared to share too much of myself now. Not everyone deserves your depth or your 3:00 am thoughts or your secret musings. I don’t know if I’m just too introverted or traumatized or old but there’s comfort in keeping things to myself and this includes my word vomits and even my art and poetry. Selfish yes. Aside from paranoia that someone else might steal them (which somebody did), there’s a feeling that these thoughts, rhymes, and hues will no longer be just mine. It’ll be for everyone to dissect and interpret and cut open. It feels like baring yourself naked. Figuratively of course. Scary but also perhaps liberating in a way. I guess I’m just not used to opening up anymore and this feels exactly like that. Art in its many forms is, after all, a form of self expression, an emotional release, and sometimes even an act of rebellion.
And I guess there’s a part of me that wishes to escape, to see the light of day again and break down the walls I’ve worked hard to build. I’m not sure if baring my soul is a good idea but in the words of Sarah Kay, “This world is made of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.”
So I guess what I’m saying here is... I've missed you. Let’s try again?
xoxo,
Anne
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