It’s been a really really long time and yes I’ve used “really” two times here to emphasize on the fact that it’s actually been a long time since I wrote anything, be it here, in the new diary I bought after joining college, or in the last pages of my notebooks. I haven’t written anything since I joined college, except of course my class notes. And since the whole point of this blog is to be honest and real, I’ve one confession to make, I didn’t write my last post, the one on my first anniversary. I asked a blogger friend of mine to write it for me. I badly wanted to post something here that day but however hard I tried, I couldn’t find my words. I cheated, and I felt so much guilty about it later. I had to get it out of my system and so I am writing it here today. Sorry folks…I messed it all up. I don’t know if people who used to read and appreciate me like me anymore or not. I still log in everyday, go through your posts, read, like and comment but I don’t feel the urge to write. There are so many things in my mind, old memories, struggles, triumphs, stories of love, loss, school, society, each intermingling with each other, difficult to filter, compress, or forget, each story wandering in my mind, too personal to write, too hurtful to ignore. But I just can’t write anymore.
I think I’ve lost that writer in me, if I ever was one. I remember the time I started this blog, that first (and thankfully the last) post of mine which I wrote in sms lingo. I was so immature and childish back then. I remember my first like, and the first comment, the moment when I realized that some person in this world has actually taken out few seconds of his life to appreciate me, my writing. I remember my enthusiasm and my desire to write more, the time when I would take minutes to finish up one post. I was so good at it. I was this anonymous girl, who had all the time in this world to write, confess, say things I couldn’t say in my real life using a false name here. I didn’t care about my language, my grammar, or the spelling mistakes I made. I was like that over enthusiastic, over imaginative little kid, who had learnt to build blocks, or to hold sketch pens. I wasn’t scared to draw crisscross, meaningless figures. I didn’t care about what people would say about this particular piece of writing, or a rhyming meaningless verse. I was fearless, and that made me a good writer, although not so creative but an honest writer. My own experiences, my own life were my inspiration.
I think I’ve lost that fearless, childish me, somewhere to acquire praise, fame and respect, I’ve lost that girl who was capable of writing anything and everything. And this is what happens with life in general, in the process of pleasing others, we lose ourselves, we lose the meaning of life. In the process of building a perfect future, we forget to live our present. That’s what I do. That’s what I see people do. We unknowingly force ourselves to be something we never wanted to be. We turn into greedy, selfish individuals and lose our innocence. I don’t want to be that. I was going the same way, but today I’ve understood my real purpose, the original one. I may not be able to write well, to get likes, or comments over the shit I write, but I’ll write, I’ll write whatever comes to my mind, because that was actually the whole point of starting this blog, to just write and let it go. This is what I wanted to do.
This is the ugly truth you know, deep within ourselves we always know what we want in life, we just complicate our needs, and desires with the way other people see the world. We are all just scared to be “ME”. We must not do that. Life rarely offers us second chances, by the time you realize you are not what you intended to be, it’s too late to go back again.
I don’t want to be a grown up writer, I was good as long as I was childish and foolish. I should better be that. It’s too stupid to try to be someone else when all you need to be happy is to be YOU.