I looked through my old journals from high school and college; and joined them with my scribbles on my recent entries. As I leaf through the pages, I can’t believe that my old journals are hilariously elaborate (even to the extent of decorating with stickers) as compared to my recent entries which are blunt and sparse, if not short.
Apart from shorter entries, my handwriting has drastically become smaller, making large amounts of space in my diary.
I noticed it – I was telling stories when I was younger. I merely tell the facts when I got older.
As I ponder, it felt like the other half of me went missing. It felt like I am stuck in an unknown nothingness.
Maybe this is the painful part where I found that I’ve grown out of my old writing habits. These past few days my hand is itching to write, but that urge was unfortunately quelled because, you know, priorities. I desperately tried to think of something to write, but I ended up either with a few words or a crumpled paper.
It hurts, but it’s a part of life. Perhaps it tells me to stop trying and accept things as they are. But I won’t give up on trying. Maybe I’ll just have to fine-tune myself so I could write again.
I am trying to search for that lost writer somewhere inside me, and I hope she’s not lost forever. She might be there somewhere, thinking of new ways to retell my story.
PS: I really need to claim my life back. ✌