After almost a year of being disconnected with myself, I found the drive to write again. Continuously. Again and again, from time to time. Ideas and thoughts and musings flow out of my mind, pouring out from pen to paper. I have this urge to continuously write; about things, places, people. I do not want to stop writing and expressing myself in words. I write about other things aside from the travel plans, the itineraries, the reminders, the lectures, and the long lists that I am fond of.
These days, I am always excited to go home so I could start writing on my journal. Every day on my way home, I yearn for that space on my bed where I would write my heart out. Every day, while I stare at my work computer, I am dreading to go home so I could be free from the rules and regulations that limit my creativity. I want to not to go to work, to stay in bed, to write.
I don’t want to do anything else anymore. All I ever want to do is write and do all things creative. I want to quit my day job and study literature and enroll in creative classes–photography, film, illustration. I want to stay in on days when the creative juices flow, watch comfort films with a whole bag of popcorn in hand, and finish a whole novel series in three days. That’s the dream.
There’s a rare sense of fulfillment right after I put the last period on my journal entries. An odd tinge of satisfaction the moment I hit Publish. It’s the same feel that I will certainly get once this post is through.