So, as I was saying from my previous post, I lost most of what used to be my interest in writing. Oh yes, I do write. I still write. One can never take away one thing which has practically been there since forever. But then again, nothing is ever permanent in this world.
I was taking a ride away from the office a while ago, just a ride because I don't feel like going home and I don't feel like staying at the office doing nothing either, when a realization dawned unto me. Somehow, I HAVE to write. I have come to believe that writers do not really WANT to write. They NEED to write. To give justice to the thousand voices echoing inside their heads. Writers write because if they don't, the monsters will start fighting and crying and wrecking havoc in their heads.
See, there's always a monster inside our heads. There's always a monster in EVERYONE. These monsters will see to it that they wouldn't be trapped in there forever. So in an attempt to save her/his self, a person should find a way to let at least one out. Some people free the monsters and they become lines, colors, shapes. And they move to another world inside a canvass. Some people take the monster out and turn it into a note, a beat, a song. Some let the monster out but still in its gruesome form. Unable to morph into something constructive but rather existing as a lesser impalpable form of the metaphysical thing it once was. This monster doesn't show its real face like those of what have become songs and drawings. This monster takes form into a lot of things: a crying child, a battered woman, a lifeless body, shattered homes. There is no exception to the rule. My brain houses only one monster. But it is a thousand-headed monster. And boy, does it have a quick temper! The heads argue and fight and contradict each other that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in my attempt to pacify them.
In lieu with this, let me tell a story. There was once a girl who likes, no, loves tackling the said monster. She had a thousand different cards under her belt on how to strike. And she was very young, then. I heard she discovered the monster when she was six. Her first encounter was similar to most people's firsts. She sat and cried. But as days passed, she developed new tactics in dealing with them. She started looking at the monster from afar. Familiarizing it, memorizing every detail. And then she moved. At seven, she took one head with her bare hands, molded it and squeezed the goo out until it flowed into paper. Her little fingers made marks all over the paper, the careful architect of every line and curve. She liked the tactic much that it became her favorite for more than half a decade until she discovered another. Her initial tactic is to tell stories. To spread the word, hoping that somehow, the monster's voice will leak out into hers and they'd grew tired of shouting in her head. It never happened. The monsters never got tired. But the people who listened did. This has been a burden until she learned something at the age of fifteen. It was a rather complex tactic that even I am amazed how she managed to pull it up. There were times when the monster would be too noisy. To silence them, she'd drew a pen and start pulling the heads one by one into words. The words pile up one on top of the other. They stretch into sentences and they get buried on paper. The pen engraving them to their end. The tactic was discovered by chance, back when she was five, and she forgot about it. But when she used it, she sensed a familiarity so powerful that it did not take long before she felt a sense of comfort in using it. With this, not only had she learned to silence the thousand voices, she had also learned how to tame the monster.
That was during the prime of her adolescence. Words never ran out. And she was always eager. Somehow writing evolved from a need to something that she enjoys it could almost qualify as a want. There are a lot of people like her who excel in the said tactic. Most of these people have endless monsters and I have observed that most of them are on the equinox of their teenage life. I guess it's the hormones which makes you so determined to voice out everything. The hormones pushing the need to be heard.
But as I have said, nothing is ever permanent. The reckless girl grew up and became me. The call of adulthood took away the excitement in her blood. Or maybe she grew tired of poking fun at the monster. Or maybe the fact that the monster has aged too; thus, the feeling of taking a head and squeezing the life out of it doesn't pose as much as a challenge as before. Sometimes when I think about it, I get amused with how I coined the title of this blog: Muffled Chatterbox. The silent battle of a soul who has a took a head; managed to show it to the world, but far from the form of what it was before. The world is amazed but it is not seeing the head which is supposed to be what the girl wants it to see. It sees a dead, decayed piece of monstrosity. And a dead monster isn't even half as scary as a live one.
I grew up and got tired of fighting monsters. The monster itself got tired of me. So at night, they sleep before I could get a chance to check up on them. The curiosity was lost. And so was the fervor that must have fueled my youthful years. Sometimes, I would think of what the teenage girl used to do and I would frown. She was gone but I still see a lot of her in different people. And I would frown. I frown because I know that somewhere down the road of life, they will eventually get tired of being always full of life. I frown and I get sad because they appear like shiny brand-new race cars zooming fast on their early days; but then end up as a chugging vehicle in just a matter of a few years time. Burned out.
Earlier this day, a trisikad driver merrily told me that my office mate is actually the spouse of his former employer. I gave what might be a grunt and shifted my attention to the graying afternoon sky.
If the little girl who used to fight monsters were in my position, she would say, "Oh really? Tell me about it!"
And the simple inquiry will stretch into a long conversation. Just thinking about it makes me lazy. And frown. But I'm sure the little girl would be happy for that small piece of information she wouldn't really find worth using for. She'd be happy.
I guess, I have to write again to be that little girl.
Or maybe, it's the other way around.
I was taking a ride away from the office a while ago, just a ride because I don't feel like going home and I don't feel like staying at the office doing nothing either, when a realization dawned unto me. Somehow, I HAVE to write. I have come to believe that writers do not really WANT to write. They NEED to write. To give justice to the thousand voices echoing inside their heads. Writers write because if they don't, the monsters will start fighting and crying and wrecking havoc in their heads.
See, there's always a monster inside our heads. There's always a monster in EVERYONE. These monsters will see to it that they wouldn't be trapped in there forever. So in an attempt to save her/his self, a person should find a way to let at least one out. Some people free the monsters and they become lines, colors, shapes. And they move to another world inside a canvass. Some people take the monster out and turn it into a note, a beat, a song. Some let the monster out but still in its gruesome form. Unable to morph into something constructive but rather existing as a lesser impalpable form of the metaphysical thing it once was. This monster doesn't show its real face like those of what have become songs and drawings. This monster takes form into a lot of things: a crying child, a battered woman, a lifeless body, shattered homes. There is no exception to the rule. My brain houses only one monster. But it is a thousand-headed monster. And boy, does it have a quick temper! The heads argue and fight and contradict each other that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in my attempt to pacify them.
In lieu with this, let me tell a story. There was once a girl who likes, no, loves tackling the said monster. She had a thousand different cards under her belt on how to strike. And she was very young, then. I heard she discovered the monster when she was six. Her first encounter was similar to most people's firsts. She sat and cried. But as days passed, she developed new tactics in dealing with them. She started looking at the monster from afar. Familiarizing it, memorizing every detail. And then she moved. At seven, she took one head with her bare hands, molded it and squeezed the goo out until it flowed into paper. Her little fingers made marks all over the paper, the careful architect of every line and curve. She liked the tactic much that it became her favorite for more than half a decade until she discovered another. Her initial tactic is to tell stories. To spread the word, hoping that somehow, the monster's voice will leak out into hers and they'd grew tired of shouting in her head. It never happened. The monsters never got tired. But the people who listened did. This has been a burden until she learned something at the age of fifteen. It was a rather complex tactic that even I am amazed how she managed to pull it up. There were times when the monster would be too noisy. To silence them, she'd drew a pen and start pulling the heads one by one into words. The words pile up one on top of the other. They stretch into sentences and they get buried on paper. The pen engraving them to their end. The tactic was discovered by chance, back when she was five, and she forgot about it. But when she used it, she sensed a familiarity so powerful that it did not take long before she felt a sense of comfort in using it. With this, not only had she learned to silence the thousand voices, she had also learned how to tame the monster.
That was during the prime of her adolescence. Words never ran out. And she was always eager. Somehow writing evolved from a need to something that she enjoys it could almost qualify as a want. There are a lot of people like her who excel in the said tactic. Most of these people have endless monsters and I have observed that most of them are on the equinox of their teenage life. I guess it's the hormones which makes you so determined to voice out everything. The hormones pushing the need to be heard.
But as I have said, nothing is ever permanent. The reckless girl grew up and became me. The call of adulthood took away the excitement in her blood. Or maybe she grew tired of poking fun at the monster. Or maybe the fact that the monster has aged too; thus, the feeling of taking a head and squeezing the life out of it doesn't pose as much as a challenge as before. Sometimes when I think about it, I get amused with how I coined the title of this blog: Muffled Chatterbox. The silent battle of a soul who has a took a head; managed to show it to the world, but far from the form of what it was before. The world is amazed but it is not seeing the head which is supposed to be what the girl wants it to see. It sees a dead, decayed piece of monstrosity. And a dead monster isn't even half as scary as a live one.
I grew up and got tired of fighting monsters. The monster itself got tired of me. So at night, they sleep before I could get a chance to check up on them. The curiosity was lost. And so was the fervor that must have fueled my youthful years. Sometimes, I would think of what the teenage girl used to do and I would frown. She was gone but I still see a lot of her in different people. And I would frown. I frown because I know that somewhere down the road of life, they will eventually get tired of being always full of life. I frown and I get sad because they appear like shiny brand-new race cars zooming fast on their early days; but then end up as a chugging vehicle in just a matter of a few years time. Burned out.
Earlier this day, a trisikad driver merrily told me that my office mate is actually the spouse of his former employer. I gave what might be a grunt and shifted my attention to the graying afternoon sky.
If the little girl who used to fight monsters were in my position, she would say, "Oh really? Tell me about it!"
And the simple inquiry will stretch into a long conversation. Just thinking about it makes me lazy. And frown. But I'm sure the little girl would be happy for that small piece of information she wouldn't really find worth using for. She'd be happy.
I guess, I have to write again to be that little girl.
Or maybe, it's the other way around.