It’s been a year since the birth of this blog.
Wow, one year. One year of happy days, not-so happy days, and some really awful ones. One year of everything and one year of not everything.
One of the reasons I began writing in this blog, or writing in general, was because I was searching for what I wanted to do with my life. Looking back, it was the whole “quarter life crisis” bullcrap. I quit my stressful job, got sick with a deadly fever, and lost a dear friend. It was like an intense wake up call to do something with my life and not to take things, or anyone, for granted.
I was closed-minded, selfish, and didn’t pay attention to the blessings that I was receiving. Instead, I pushed myself into isolation and despair because I didn’t know what else to do. A year ago there were a lot of bad days. Those were the days of drinking to forget, smoking to breathe, crying to find solace, and not sleeping because my heart didn’t want to rest. Those were the days of endless searching and infinite nothingness. Those were the days that when I look back, I shudder and won’t even know where to begin explaining myself. And those were the days I wrote because writing became a sublimation – a defense mechanism. It was more than an escape, it was a way to breathe.
As I said in my very first post a year ago on a beautiful and lonely September day, I write because I can. I write because this is what I want to do.
And despite those bad days, there were good days eventually – days when I could almost taste the idea of belonging to something bigger than myself. There were days of mesmerizing bliss with friends and with those who care. There were also days of finding the beauty in nothingness and quietness. Despite days of unrest, there were days of peace, beautiful and gracious peace.
What now? Now, there are more questions to ask and more questions to be answered. I continue the journey like a wandering warrior looking for a place to call home. To more good days and to more bad days. Each day is a gift and an opportunity and it will be irresponsible for either of us to waste it.
What now? Now, you and I write.
Let’s write about beauty and wonder, of empty spaces and wondrous places. Let’s write because it’s the only way we know how to live. Let’s explore the great unknown for it is only then will we know what is real and pure.
Now, I write.
I write here because it has become my sanctuary.
Some people are forced into isolation, I look for it. I need the space and the quietness. I hate myself for not writing here as much as I could. I really hope writing becomes more than just a habit and that it becomes like a drug that I need just to get by.
Instead of days forcing myself to type on a computer or use a pencil and write on my notebook, I hope they become part of my everyday life.
One day, I pray that my writing hands become an extension of my body that when I think of something my hands automatically know what to do and write.
Probably more than anything, I wish that I can write with so much passion that writing has a euphoric and transcending feel on my soul; and extends to the readers that it touches and inspires them as well.
I wish all these things and more.
Just like a year ago, just like always, today I write.