Currently in between jobs, I finally relented to my mom’s insistent reminders (and demands) that I go back to writing for KwentongDiwa.Com and to simply do what I do best–writing (according to my mom, not me, I swear!).
So, armed with nothing but my dilapidated mobile phone and a slow, faulty connection to the worldwide web through my paltry prepaid credits, I decided to heed my mom’s well-meant advice and squeeze my dried-up prune of a brain for whimsical (outstanding) ideas that may catch the attention of online audiences. Although, given my current state of mind, my ever-present depression, and my annoying proclivity to wear my heart on my sleeve (Aha! An idiomatic expression!), I retrieved my notes application and tap-tap-tapped about anything and nothing that came to mind (and heart).
Now, what does an out-of-job writer jot about during boring, harrowing days like this? Her loud, irksome neighbors? Her tendency to whine about her risible struggles? Her huge, playful dog who bites her clothes (and her–I have scratch marks to prove it!) each time she goes near? In fact, I have countless moments of just staring into space, lost in a swirling compendium of lunatic “Eurekas”, humdrum experiences, and regretful what-ifs within my tricky, miasmic psyche.
They declare that artists and writers are but a bunch of demented rascals who are highly prone to psychological breakdowns, peculiar idiosyncrasies, and maniacal ravings (Remember academical readings and discussions on Vincent Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and the like?). Hence, I felt that I had that “artistic flair” explained and justified (Yeah, humor me, please, and permit me this brief chance to see myself as a credible writer-artist).
Thus, I pen down my wordplays and speak about the commonplace meanderings that inundate my days. In truth, all my write-ups are allusions to the varied encounters and misencounters in my life. You see, I believe that a writer can never even narrate anything (even the so-called fiction) that doesn’t reflect a sliver of truth in her (or his) life. A seemingly surmountable task, don’t you think? Or not.
Some people claim that it’s difficult to express thoughts and emotions in words. They announce that they find it laborious–and next to impossible–to succinctly describe connections and misconnections that pepper their everyday.
I think they’re wrong, though. Why? Because, for me, writing is akin to breathing. Tantamount to Rene Descartes’ “Cogito, ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am; see Cogito, ergo sum), I define my own existence by my ability to jot down sense and nonsense, prolifically. You know the feeling of brimming and bursting when you aren’t given the chance that you so badly need and desire? Well, that’s what happens to me when I force myself to shut up.
Therefore, I write. Since I gave in to my mom’s highfalutin (and brusque) coercions to mould articles for KwentongDiwa (We are paying expensive fees just to keep your site online! Mama pointed out), I especially developed that annoying tick of opening and closing my browser in order to check out Google Analytics and my blog’s static dashboard. One current viewer. Oh, another! Woohoo, the traffic is increasing! Tapping my shoulder now–a glimmer of a smile on my lips. Awww, they ignored my article–the hopeful smile fades away and stays that way. Silence. Ugh, can I go trending now, please?!