Dear Diary

Dear diary,

It’s been a while (I guess not really, it’s been almost a year) since I have written something. All this time, I’ve always felt hollow, like I’m missing a part of myself because writing meant so much to me. I’ve wondered what happened to that girl who penned down poems and wrote up blogposts. But since my university kept me busy with all the course load and the struggle for an internship in a foreign land, I never gave it much thought. I used to believe that writing was my way of expressing myself. However I noticed that I hardly ever wrote when I was happy, because I am generally too busy living the moment to capture it in words, and that is something I’ve never regretted. I then thought that it maybe is an escape I find from reality during times I can’t handle the stress in my life.

Many a time in the last one year, I’ve wondered why I never felt like I had to write something, in spite of having gone through so much stress. The stress was more than I could’ve ever dreamt of, and I couldn’t have dealt with it if it wasn’t for my family who lent patient ears to my rants and sobs, and encouraged me to overcome the hardships to achieve my goals. It always surprised me that I chose to speak to them than scribble up my worries on paper, and I always tried convincing myself that it probably is because I miss them, or because I didn’t have enough time for writing.

But today, as I write this piece, I guess I know what it takes for me to embrace this subtle artform. It’s the burden of emotions that breaks me deep within, the turmoil that I go through that threatens to swallow me up, the echoes of my silent screams that haunt me at night… That’s what it takes to get me back to writing, for it is something I have sought solace in before, and I know I’ll find it again. They say old habits die hard, and I can’t help but agree. I have no particular reason to feel emotionally wiped out today. It just happens to be the day when the waves of emotions came crashing down on me, the day I somehow can’t think of anything except everything that’s gone wrong in all these years of my life, the day my defenses came tumbling down and I felt my eyes brimming, the tears threatening to flood up. I feel lost, defeated and vulnerable now, and I am glad to have a private moment. No, this is not depression for I have looked it in its eye once before, and I bet I know what it looks like. This is just a temporary state where I feel drained out emotionally, but I know I’ll gather up the courage and will to rise higher than I’ve ever been before.

Art is as funny as it is beautiful. I now understand how you should really be broken deep inside, broken beyond repair, for art to be born and for you to appreciate it. It makes me question if the disclaimers about works of art being purely based on fiction is true. It makes me wonder the kind of pain that millions of others have faced. It is said that Van Gogh painted the Starry night in emotional torment, and Milton penned Paradise Lost after losing his wife, his daughter, and his eyesight. The long standing connection between art and pain continues to baffle me as I wonder if we humans would ever have created and appreciated art if Pandora had never opened the box of troubles.

I already feel lighter, having transferred the weights of my emotions onto your shoulder. I feel calm and relaxed as I get ready for bed tonight. I want to thank you for listening so patiently while I poured my heart out. I'm sorry for the pain every pen stroke caused you.

Until next time,

~Yours truly