dasal (isyu at daing ng madaldal na isipan)

Sigh. I hate the feeling of a wannabe-writer. Self-pity encloses as the words parade in front of me, forming pictures that I never thought visible, then leaving me dumfounded with nothing to capture it with. Literature intimidates me, especially the ones authored by living writers, young and younger they get. But they fascinate me. I’m always caught drooling by them poems, short stories, essays, plays, screenplay, everything that spells ‘publishable’ and ‘copyright’.
Difficult. There’s still time to clench my fingers and tuck it in, somewhere where letters won’t be able to make them dance. My mind, I confess, is his own boss. All I ask of him is to critique a poem and imitate it. He won’t budge, though he says he will. In his own time. Well, I say to him, time will come that your stubbornness will kill my future. My academics is at stake here, mister. Then turn back, he constantly serenades me.
Can’t. I got myself into wanting this and turning back is not plausible. Quitting is like asking myself to grow ten years younger, asking Mr. Mind to forget every reason that makes me live. He won’t listen. Memory alteration is something he could never do.
Go. I would very much like to write for myself. Can’t. Myself don’t inspire me that much. God does. People do. Writers do. Readers, too. I have learned never to envy anyone who writes extremely well even if they are younger than me, a trait that I couldn’t have acquired if not for my lack of word power. I wonder why other people call them crappy, people who are not aware of the risk they take everytime they write. To open themselves up, lie on the operating table, expose their inner soul, not caring whether the examiners will kill or heal. Sacrifice is unreadable by arrogance.
Pray. I’m waiting for Him. I might forever be a wannabe-writer, but that is something that I would really want, and that He would lovely grant.