lately i’ve been complaining to myself why i don’t get to actually writing down what comes to my mind. and as my volume is quite high, many of those around me get to hear these complaints quite clearly. then early morning today, i got some time alone to gather my thoughts and wrote in my diary. now i want to share it with you.
“am sitting in my room, alone in the house. it is quite. i’ve opened this journal after a long time. (well, now it’s more of a scrap book and less of a journal.) i don’t know why i don’t write when it pains me so much not to write. thoughts, words, images start forming within my mind the moment i get up. sometimes even before that. perhaps it’s plain laziness, a disease that has afflicted me all my life. and when you live with something for so long, you start loving it. now i hush me up by putting laziness on a pedestal and sacrificing many idle moments on her altar. moments, minutes, times that could have been better utilized. but i guess, to be guilty is to be human. maybe the only difference between man and animal is the total absence of guilt in the latter’s concious.
perhaps i don’t write because of this guilt. maybe its not laziness, but this fear of unraveling myself in front of me. unraveling not in the sense of removing clothes and being ashamed of the sorry state of this physical body, unraveling in the sense of peeling layer after layer of the pretences i’ve build upon my mental existence.
to write this journal is to know myself, to feel guilty of things i should be doing and am not doing, to feel ashamed at my robot like existence where am human only in the biped, city-living, internet-using, animal-of-a-herd sense. to write is to be the exact opposite of this animal, and still i shy away from it.
maybe, i don’t write ‘cos i’m lazy, maybe i don’t want to come across the human within me.”
tell me, dear reader freind, do you also feel the same?
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