I’ve been reading a book about a writer and his obsession in finding the wife who went away.
My idea for a book remains hanging. It stayed unfinished for more than ten years. I wondered whether I have the gift in writing or not. Am I capable of actually writing a good story or even simply finishing one? Or am I just putting it off. Will there be a moment when I would lock myself up in weeks a come out scathed with the battle wounds from the battle to complete the tales I have locked in my head? Or am I just a dreaming, thinking of the things she can do when in reality, that is the only thing she can do-dream.
From Burnt Ice (the sense of the phrase and its conception still eludes me); I have changed the title of my other blog into “Jack of All Trades, Master of None.” The phrase is not something unheard of but I have the impression that it is really how I should describe myself with regards to the things I try to create. Besides, using that cliché removes me from being the pseudo-intellectual mixing words that simply does not have sense or reason behind it other than how much I fancy fire yet call myself an ice queen.
However, come to think of it, Burnt Ice seems to make sense. I am perceived to be a person filled with intense emotions, usually rage, but at the same time I can give an air of nonchalance. I could be identified in the statement, “This is me not caring.”
The sentiment however of trying to, somehow, be the best in something yet falls short captures the essence of my struggles. Recalling how little I have improved in digital and visual art still plagues me as I see how much many who started after me developed tremendously.
I do not see myself, at present, performing on a stage other than the one in our campus. I have never pleased anyone in my singing though I would like to think that a few have commended me on acting. However, I would like to refused to be typecasted into roles that require being old and obnoxious. I guess, my physical appearance contributes to this. Dear heavens, give me the will to change this.
And as for my writing, I still fear that my vocabulary would only amount to a hundred English words. My novels remained unfinished. My novels remained unfinished. My novels remained unfinished. The thought plagues me. Yet, I could not muster the strength and determination and wisdoms to get back from where I left.
Will finding a love help me to complete the task – just like the main character of the novel I am reading? Does this even mean that I haven’t found something that I really love? And if it is the secret ingredient to the full actualization of my potential, then, will I ever find it? And when?