rurishion

Looking back, I began thinking... Was there anything I had missed out? Was there anything worth holding on to? Was there anything I'd rather do? Would it bring me comfort if I say I have no regrets? It's not that difficult because there's no use thinking of things that were already done. I used to think that way, and it's become much easier to look at where I am today, who I am. What can I do more? Do less? I'm still learning how to love myself. This year I'm cleaning my closet again, asking the same questions: What do I not need? What do I need to let go? What is it that holds no value to me anymore? I allow myself to receive by giving. I'm freeing up the once cluttered space, and maybe, slowly... it's not the only thing that's gonna open up. Time flies quickly. It passes by whether we like it or not. Whether we move or not. Better make the most out of the days, and sleep at night as much as you can. The steps are steep; the road, long and winding.

My pages are coming to an end I have to learn to write with my left Do you notice how the heat stays even After the sun has left? As if the sun hasn't gone at all As if the sun wouldn't be gone long My back hurts too I feel so old Why is it As we age we turn into gold? Why is it, when I was kid I felt as if I knew every little thing? (This handwriting tells me only half of myself is an adult; the other half is always a child) Looking at this makes me ask myself: Did this really come from me? Did I really make this? Is this mine?

The last time I wrote in the dark, the only light coming from my phone's screen, was in our province, January of 2018. I've liked that piece since then, no matter how tragic it looks at the beginning. But no matter how tragic it looks at the beginning, it ends on a hopeful note. And it's good enough for me. And now that I'm in a similar situation, I can't help but think that I could write something like that again. Somehow, I'd like to prove we can still make something beautiful out of the dark; something good out of frustration; something comforting out of the discomfort.

I sometimes wake up at 1 or 3 a.m. and I write. The moment I meet with my thoughts, I write. Write each day, as if it's the only thing you know. Write, even if you don't know how. Write still, without feeling sorry for yourself. Write, to release the frustration of not being good enough. Write, to ease the longing of not writing. Write, to make a promise. Write, as if telling your day to someone you love. Write, because it means so much to you. Write, knowing it's a suffering you choose, maybe for the rest of your days. Write, knowing you just have to do it. Write, but don't forget there's as much happiness to it as despair. Write, and not forget. Write, because you were made to.

As a fellow writer and a reader of her work, I can't help but to think of Ssamba, the author of Fluttering Feelings.

There's this interesting memory where I lied to my teacher in 3rd grade.