When I write, sometimes the words flow. Oftentimes I have to grind my mind to produce the words that can reflect my soul, heart and all. The latter can be really tiresome. At the same time, like now, it’s sort of a therapy, and way to remember how I felt and thought at the very moment (because I’m forgetful, hahaha!).
I know how forgetful I can be. That’s why I should be writing a journal or just a few lines from my cluttered mind. (Pretty much why I made a private Twitter account for the purpose of the latter). I often forget to. Sometimes (I keep on using the word sometimes) I’m just too caught up with life and when it’s been days since a noteworthy experience happened, I feel that it’s too late to write about it.
There are days when the urge to write down the details of my everyday life are strong, but not strong enough to actually move me to do so. I would regret not writing, especially when I know that the certain experience is really a journal-worthy entry. Most of the time, I don’t really care. I think I should. Maybe the best stories are left untold because they’re gone with the wind after a cycle of being passed on by mouth yet remained unwritten. (Or am I just dramatizing?)
I feel that my life won’t be worth remembering, so why do I bother writing?
I used to write often, but never consistently. It’s worse now. It’s sad. It’s sadder when I try to remember a good memory and all I get are blurry flashbacks in my head, and nothing else. Shared experiences can still be remembered, but it’s really different when it’s from your own perspective. There are also times when I have realizations and I don’t write about them. I’d forget I’ve had those realizations.
I would let my mind “write a blog entry” in a way I might do so if I actually let my fingers do the writing. Then they’d drift away and I barely remember what I’ve wanted to write.
So, I’ll try to write. I’ll try even when I’m not as good as my writer-friends who can wonderfully string up emotions with a few paragraphs or tell stories that could strike something in you.
I’ll write, because maybe, it would mean something.
A good memory. A lesson. A story worth sharing.
A reminder to myself that I’m a human being living through life unique to you because everyone else has their own story, and so do you.