It’s been a long time since I last wrote a fictional work. It was not even because I wanted to but because I was still serving as an EIC of our school paper back then, and I needed to fill in some empty spaces. I can no longer remember what I had written exactly. But I can still feel how ecstatic and satisfied I was coming up with such a fine piece. That is one thing that I am really missing because no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get my hand and mind to write fiction.
I am afraid. I am afraid because I already lost confidence with my ability to write. I know I had it in me but it has already rotten with time. And what’s left in me are just the dusts I am trying so hard to form into words. Gone is the brilliance, the enthusiasm that I had when I was still dreaming to be writer.
Things like that happen to most people deprived of the chance to use their talents. They are born with these special abilities. Of course, other people applaud them, especially when they are younger. They just can’t help but to be good at it. Teachers are impressed. Classmates praise and envy them. But without proper training and discipline, they will regress. What seems to be a promising talent becomes mediocre. Nothing special. Insignificant to the eyes of people who know better.
This is exactly how I feel whenever I attempt to translate my thoughts into words. It is just a good thing that I still have the courage to do what I love to do most. But as long as there is fear each time I hold the pen, I will never be able to wield the sword that it is, making me powerless and weak as the reality consumes me.