Too tired to move. Otherwise, I could’ve cooked some real food for dinner then washed clothes after. I feel like I’ve been wanting to write for days now but I have no definite reason or idea to rave about.
This is one of the worst feelings, wanting to accomplish something but you’re just tired most of the time. Not to mention sleepy. You can’t even sit up and type on the computer so you grab a pen and small notebook to scribble words which you can only hope to understand later when you read them again.
I have a paper to write. A real academic paper – the final requirement for the research and writing course I took, after a year’s delay. I don’t exactly know what pushed me to finally take it and during the busiest season of my work year at that. What is clear to me though is that it is the first concrete step to a life of writing.
Problem is I feel I have not been giving my best effort on the requirements. I crammed each and every one of them. (Which reminds me, I still haven’t submitted my reading report that is now a week and a day late. *Sigh*) I feel frustrated with myself.
I wish I could just write songs out of these frustrations instead of mere thoughts and monologues forcing my hand to scribble whatever word my brain dictates my hand to jot down next.
Am I really meant to write? I ask myself. Well, at the very least, I sense a bit of an accomplishment just seeing these blank pages get filled with squiggly writing. I answer my mind. I do feel I was, I have been, I am meant to write. Maybe not academic papers because I feel exhausted just getting one footnote right. Maybe not obviously useful pieces. But maybe the type where you are allowed to start with a conjunction (like this sentence). Maybe the type which grants me poetic license. Maybe the type where I can echo how I felt about a particular thing at a specific point in time. Maybe the type which a particular set of people will care to stop and give a moment to, in hope of finding something which resembles their questions, thoughts and what-not’s. Maybe the type which won’t treat conjunctions and run-on’s as crimes if they can give the appropriate tone and emphasis a thought deserves. But I definitely want it to be my art, my craft.
Useless, most people might say because they may find it as “art for art’s sake”. I don’t buy that idea though. Any art for its own sake is phony. At least in my own opinion.
Yes, it will be the type of writing which may not feed my body but will definitely make my soul breathe, my mind grow and my heart unafraid to feel. It will make me live my days thriving, not just surviving like what Jon Foreman sings out right now as I write this.
I don’t know if I am making any sense right now. Maybe I better start that paper on Colosse. Or if I can’t squeeze an original statement from my brain about its location, history and religious setting, I just might spend the night strumming random songs on my guitar.