The endless need to write continues to haunt me through the night, so strong that I am beginning to live the Barcelona way - those Spanish people don't ever sleep at night.
The previous night was spent at a quaint and traditional Spanish house tasting beer and watching a friend of ours get high on 8 bottles of beer. Tonight, packing and getting ready to head to our next destination was high on the priority list, and we finally settled down to the dining table, whipped out our laptops and in typical Singaporean fashion, concentrated the last of our energy on our laptops.
I seem to be losing my mojo for writing. Reading through the blogs of Mir, Jer and Kiat reminded me of my love for words, and how beautifully they flow to create forms of their own - to touch the heart, to soothe the soul and to inspire the mind. I remembered how easily I fell in love with his lines of poetry, how lyrical they seemed to me. I remembered how attracted I was to his messages of flamboyance, wit and egoism. I read her story of an unfilial daughter and felt the angst deep within; I made a promise to myself never to follow the footsteps of the female protagonist. Tonight I perch on the wooden chair and let those words totter their way out; they do not flow, they do not soar, they can only try their best not to slip and fall.
So many unspoken emotions swirling within me. It nudges, it pokes, it tears at me. I wanted so much to please, to make things easy; I end up complicating, frustrating, doing everything wrong. Perhaps I was too cocky in the past, thinking I was really as independent as I thought myself to be - no, the little one has to peek out at her most vulnerable moment(s). Vulnerability is a feeling so feared, something that spent most of its time firmly wrapped in thick layers of black tape, sealed and boxed away from the harsh realities of the real world.
I don't know if it is a good thing to be sensitive, for it pains more than it rewards.
The previous night was spent at a quaint and traditional Spanish house tasting beer and watching a friend of ours get high on 8 bottles of beer. Tonight, packing and getting ready to head to our next destination was high on the priority list, and we finally settled down to the dining table, whipped out our laptops and in typical Singaporean fashion, concentrated the last of our energy on our laptops.
I seem to be losing my mojo for writing. Reading through the blogs of Mir, Jer and Kiat reminded me of my love for words, and how beautifully they flow to create forms of their own - to touch the heart, to soothe the soul and to inspire the mind. I remembered how easily I fell in love with his lines of poetry, how lyrical they seemed to me. I remembered how attracted I was to his messages of flamboyance, wit and egoism. I read her story of an unfilial daughter and felt the angst deep within; I made a promise to myself never to follow the footsteps of the female protagonist. Tonight I perch on the wooden chair and let those words totter their way out; they do not flow, they do not soar, they can only try their best not to slip and fall.
So many unspoken emotions swirling within me. It nudges, it pokes, it tears at me. I wanted so much to please, to make things easy; I end up complicating, frustrating, doing everything wrong. Perhaps I was too cocky in the past, thinking I was really as independent as I thought myself to be - no, the little one has to peek out at her most vulnerable moment(s). Vulnerability is a feeling so feared, something that spent most of its time firmly wrapped in thick layers of black tape, sealed and boxed away from the harsh realities of the real world.
I don't know if it is a good thing to be sensitive, for it pains more than it rewards.