I fell in love with words. With phrases, spaces, punctuation marks and all the things that could be associated with words and writings. I remember when i was in second grade, i wrote something in a three-piece paper that says something about teenage pregnancy and such. I knew that my mother kept it in her closet. I was so damn proud of myself that day because i did something that had amazed my mother.
I grew up with the idea that the best thing that i could do is to write and play with words. I wrote scripts which were about the girl that my circle of friends used to hate. I wrote poems for those who i have admired. They were unread by them. I wrote and write and drown myself with words. Hoping that each time i will write, i could please everyone. I could please myself.
But there came a point when i am not anymore pleased with my writings. I began to compare my style with others, only to feel bad that they write better than me. Way way way better. They don’t have flaws in their prose’s. Unlike mine. My writings are all decorated with wrong use of verbs and subjects, of mistakenly spelled words, of misplaced punctuation marks.
My writing’s a clear mirror of what i really am. Sad. Broken. Flawed.
I took up Journalism because really, i didn’t have a choice. All i can do is write. But today, and for the past two years, i have nothing but regrets.
I thought the feeling’s mutual but no, writing hates me. It can’t love me back. Maybe it tried to, but it failed.
It’s sad to know how you suck on things you thought you’re good at. It’s heart wrenching to know that the things you’ve loved cannot reciprocate the same love you are giving.
Words and me would never be the perfect synonym of one another.