Do you know how it feels when the one you love can’t even love you back?

I fell in love with words. With phrases, spaces, punctuation marks and all the things that could be associated with words and writings.Ā 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 donā€™t have flaws in their proseā€™s. Unlike mine. My writings are all decorated with wrong use of verbs and subjects, of mistakenly spelled words, of misplaced punctuation marks.

My writingā€™s a clear mirror of what i really am. Sad. Broken. Flawed.

I took up Journalism because really, i didnā€™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 feelingā€™s mutual but no, writing hates me. It canā€™t love me back. Maybe it tried to, but it failed.

Itā€™s sad to know how you suck on things you thought youā€™re good at. Itā€™s heart wrenching to know that the things youā€™ve loved cannot reciprocate the same love you are giving.

Words and me would never be the perfect synonym of one another.

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