It is a quietly disturbing dilemma; there is a sudden point when you shun your routine or habit though it’s been your shoulder to lean on.I still haven’t claimed being a “writer” despite writing on a regular basis.
Sometimes they look up because you are a “mountain of difficult words and aesthetic language”, sometimes they degrade ’cause you are a “wretched soul with a head full of old-fashioned mush”,worse when their game is making judgments such as you’re acting as if you’re better than anyone,and you’re just trying to be a worldwide preacher.It is good to be listened to,a human pleasure.But to be a “writer” is to be just a singer because you can sing a song, a painter ’cause you can run the brush across the canvas.It’s a risk to write down and when one writes it’s not a mastery of words.In my case,never been outspoken and there are things that take sitting down for a period of time until you’re making sense so you take down the notes from your own contemplation, and I’ve come to be aware that maybe #socialmedia has been dominating, we’re too stolen by the wanting of immediate exposure. Lately,I’ve been doubting if I’m writing for myself still while discussing the eruption of happenings keeping me hungry for answers, or for people who identify me as the “writer”,you know the substance of something loses when it becomes an object to attract attention. Oh God,don’t know where I walk here,just wanna say I am afraid my journey is beginning to get shallow when what I do is falling into the ego’s childish interest.I am uncomfortable thinking that it will be just the words and flowery construction readers will be after,then I guess it is just the pressure from expectations and anxiety about what they make out of who you are by what you tell. Yet I rely also on the idea that there are people out somewhere who need solutions and lessons, those who seek the same clarity and awakening…
*Sighs* I think I am torn between wishing to reach out and wanting to rest away from the distorted verdict of the world.