At this point, I have no misery left in me. Even if it’s hard or tough, I can’t seem to drown myself in self-pity because I know better to keep my head up high than to sink in my tears. Sympathising yourself is the easiest thing to do but getting up on your feet seems so much more impossible. I used to be that person who just feels mad at everything and everyone. Nothing was ever right or good enough for me. I’ve had many remorse of my past. But that was before.
With the death, I think I’m getting better at coping with my problems. The jealousy in me started to cease and little by little, I was happy. I’ve never felt so calm and reserved like now. I was determined to get my old self back; the one who would always be happy and content with everything that I had, no matter if it rains or thunder. Thanks to Allah, I’ve met myself back. But, there’s just one problem. I have lost my touch.
Before, all the rage and contempt built up a passion from within that continued to give birth to my inspirations. I could write and write without knowing pain or boredom. I could indulge myself in pain and sorrow for hours and days. With one trouble I could write ten pages long of ink and never get tired of it. But now that I’m plain happy, I thought I could write about happy thoughts and events but I just can’t find any. Look at me now, as I am writing this, I am reminiscing back to my previous self-inflicted pain and see, I could write.
To others, miseries only bring misfortune but to writers, it is one of the most beautiful gifts from God. It’s so amazing; the power and need to pour all the anger into the pure sheet of white papers. Yes, it’s a monster but with the existence of monster, there’s the will to fight and to bring them down. Even if all efforts meet with damnation and all hopes were lost, warriors would fight till the end. It’s a never ending battle. That is what it’s like for us writers. With our own grief and blood, we would gather all that’s bright like the sun and the need for love to conquer our heartache. And now that the monster’s gone, the pain vanished, what is there left for my ink to fight for?
This is a dilemma and I can’t seem to find any other way to solve it than to go running back to the arms of misery. What can I do? Writing is my forte and my will to wake up each other day. Without it, I am nothing, I’m nobody. And I would hate it if that happens. It’s the same as living life without air. Making sacrifices and going through the labour without having something to achieve. Living life without making any contribution, that just sucks. If that’s the case then life itself is not worth living for. It’s like men without religion and a man without a soul.
I am a self-inflicted soul.
