I cannot sleep. It's 1'o clock in the morning. I am tired but I find it hard to just drift off and wake up the next day feeling as confused as always.
Ever since I accepted the truth, I often find myself writing. Writing, writing, all the time. I used to write during my childhood years, whenever inspiration would hit me. I have written countless novels, but they long have been abandoned, out of boredom, or lack of inspiration. I was never really a writer, I had only hoped to be one, even considered majoring in English Literature in college. But that never happened.
I was never really a writer to begin with. My true passion is art.
I would like to believe I came into this world holding a paintbrush in hand instead of a silver spoon in my mouth. I wasn't born into a privileged family, one who had riches and those fancy mansions and beautiful, fast cars. But it was a wonderful family just the same. We weren't rich with money but we were rich with health. And we were luckier than most families - we have enough, sometimes more than enough that we are able to live day by day. And I felt lucky, because we had enough to pursue our passions. And in my family, I was the only one painting and drawing all the time. My passion. My talent. My mother would always get mad at me. I had a habit of drawing on walls when I'm not supposed to - I still do, but she doesn't notice all the paint and ink marks I paint into the stairs. I hope she never does.
Because of my talent I majored in the Arts. I had left behind all thoughts of even becoming a blogger, the second thing that was even remotely close to becoming a writer - because my writings weren't good and I was a shy one. Who knew years later I would be sitting here, so late at night yet so early in the morning, typing out my thoughts?
Not even my friend would even believe that. No, not him. After all he is a writer. All he knows is that I used to make poems and stories, but I never let him read them. I will admit I was ashamed. That I am still ashamed. I do want to share this blog with him but not now, not yet. I am not yet at his level, and that means I have nothing yet to show. I want to prove myself that I can be a writer as well as an artist, the same way he tries to be an artist as well as a writer. We're opposites, yet we're the same, and that's where the challenges lie.
Ever since I accepted the truth, I often find myself writing. Writing, writing, all the time. I used to write during my childhood years, whenever inspiration would hit me. I have written countless novels, but they long have been abandoned, out of boredom, or lack of inspiration. I was never really a writer, I had only hoped to be one, even considered majoring in English Literature in college. But that never happened.
I was never really a writer to begin with. My true passion is art.
I would like to believe I came into this world holding a paintbrush in hand instead of a silver spoon in my mouth. I wasn't born into a privileged family, one who had riches and those fancy mansions and beautiful, fast cars. But it was a wonderful family just the same. We weren't rich with money but we were rich with health. And we were luckier than most families - we have enough, sometimes more than enough that we are able to live day by day. And I felt lucky, because we had enough to pursue our passions. And in my family, I was the only one painting and drawing all the time. My passion. My talent. My mother would always get mad at me. I had a habit of drawing on walls when I'm not supposed to - I still do, but she doesn't notice all the paint and ink marks I paint into the stairs. I hope she never does.
Because of my talent I majored in the Arts. I had left behind all thoughts of even becoming a blogger, the second thing that was even remotely close to becoming a writer - because my writings weren't good and I was a shy one. Who knew years later I would be sitting here, so late at night yet so early in the morning, typing out my thoughts?
Not even my friend would even believe that. No, not him. After all he is a writer. All he knows is that I used to make poems and stories, but I never let him read them. I will admit I was ashamed. That I am still ashamed. I do want to share this blog with him but not now, not yet. I am not yet at his level, and that means I have nothing yet to show. I want to prove myself that I can be a writer as well as an artist, the same way he tries to be an artist as well as a writer. We're opposites, yet we're the same, and that's where the challenges lie.
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