Why do I write letters?
Why do I write letters to fictional entities whom I can’t meet? Letters which will forever be hidden – unread?
Letters which express my profound appreciation of art.
Characters who are very well crafted leave a mark. They aren’t real but strangely feels real. They are even more relatable than real human beings – the funny thing about fiction.
There are characters who broke me.
Characters who made me happy.
Characters who taught me things I could never ever learn at school.
Such power is found on those characters that I sometimes hope for them to be real. To speak to them in person – to understand them at a personal level. It would be a pleasure.
But they are fictional.
They can’t be real.
Their dominion lies on the pages of the book I read, on the creative muse of those who brought them to life – their writers.
But I never regret meeting them – knowing them.
Others left with a lesson.
It’s a mysterious feeling. Weird. But beautiful.
Writing to them makes them feel real. It’s relaxing as it is meditative. It lets me dive into their world, speak to a character I’ve never known before – a chance to bear thoughts I never knew existed prior to writing them down.
Not all people see the beauty of writing.
Only a few.
I’m glad to be a part of the pact. Nothing could beat the feeling of wonder I have when writing.
It’s the craft I love – a craft I will forever do.
In God’s grace.
I’ve read somewhere how solitude can be dangerous as it can feel comfortable to the point that you stop wanting to deal with people.
Dealing with people, to be honest, can be tiring. It requires a certain amount of energy enough to handle a conversation. Most especially if you don’t like them.
That brings the question, what irks you in a person?
Me? I don’t like insensitive personalities. I’m bothered by individuals who act as though they’re the only people around – all the while ignoring what other people think.
Of course, minding others is a choice. But sensitivity is a basic courtesy. If one doesn’t care about what people think, then fine. But couldn’t one at least have the decency to feel for others?
Then again, not all share the same opinion. Not everyone has similar views on things. I’m might just be too sensitive. And I have troubles dealing with rude, insensitive personalities.
I’m no hypocrite. So don’t go telling me how I should play nice. At some point, cutting off connections and closing doors are all part of growing up.
Endurance can be tricky.
At times you think you are doing well only to find out how you are not really making significant progress.
The more one thinks about endurance the more challenging it feels.
I don’t consider myself well-trained when it comes to endurance, and there is a good chance that when a real test comes I won’t be able to hold my ground that well. And yet the idea itself calls for more motivation to do better. Next time.
We’ll never know when next time comes.
And I guess there is no use worrying about that.
We do what we do in the current situation we have.
Our limited lifespan.
It first came as an interest powered by curiosity.
The idea of blogging was an attraction – it made me feel in control as much as I’m responsible.
Every time I put out a post, I feel the need to ensure it has the message I want to share. English isn’t my first language, and I’m not an English major too, so starting a blog using the language was a challenge.
But I am able to communicate, nonetheless.
As months pass by, blogging has become more than an interest. It became a routine, a habit. Then at some point a form of therapy for some intense emotional and mental issues I had to deal with.
Blogging then can be a wonderful past time. But I do it for it heals. And I learn more along the way.