I have an addiction. I'm addicted to writing - especially when I am feeling melancholy, pensive, depressed, down... you get the idea. (Don't start wondering why there are so many posts for July. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.) As a young girl in my early teens, I aspired to be a writer and a poet. I wrote about anything and everything - in forms of essays, short stories, looong stories - most of which I am too embarrassed to even look at now. I also have an ardent love for poetry and composed many poems, some of which I am still proud of, others I blush to recall. I wrote mostly on this bunch of papers I'd kept close with me always and they're full of scribbles, scratched-out words and phrases, random writings, doodles... you name it.
This bunch of papers had long been kept away and I think the last I'd cast eyes on them was quite number of years back. A wave of emotions that swept over me today stirred my passion for writing so strongly that I dug it out, with the intention of penning a poem (or rather, to attempt to, as I hadn't composed for so long, I believe I'd lost the talent and flair for it). I said, with the intention, because I ended up not writing a single word. I will relate why.
First, some background story - when I lost my first love 10+ years ago, I went through one of the most bitter periods of my life (as yet) - I call it my mourning for lost love phase. It lasted nearly TWO years. And as I had mentioned earlier in the post, I express my sorrows and yearnings and whatever-else best through writing. It was in this period that I composed the bulk of my most heart-rending, most crazy sad poems - I still consider them my best creative efforts. But those aren't going to be the emphasis of this post. (Yes, 3 paragraphs and 300+ words into the post, and I haven't touched on the main subject - I do digress a little too much at times)
So then, I was browsing through my bunch of papers - old, yellowed and well-worn. I came across the following, probably scribbled in a moment of intense dejectedness and mindless pining:
CK is my boyfriend who forsook me, who deserted me, whom I still love.
Conclusion: I am as stupid as a pig, as silly as a goat, as in vain as a silkworm, as idealistic as a red rose, as useless as a nutshell.
And my first reaction was to burst out in laughter. Did I really write that?! And then were was this doodle of a frowning face, labeled me with several droplets labeled tears and a caption I am so sad. There were more:
Such, my dear CK... my heart's dearest, such is my love for you.
Je t'aime, monseiur CK.
It was on the 4th April 97 we first dated, and it was the day before my finals. I had an English paper the next day.
I was amused to the point that my need to compose a poem to express my anguish was gone - part of the reason there was no attempt to write. During my mourning for lost love days, I repeatedly tell myself that one day, it would all pass; one day, I can look back at it all and laugh. That day has come! I am laughing! It is true, the saying that it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. When the hurt is past, there will be a day you can look back and laugh...
Coincidentally, today is his birthday. Have a good one, buddy!