lucifer just might be your middle name

I'll blog more when I have the time.

Well, at least that is what I keep telling myself...and what I keep reneging on. I envy those people out there who find time to update their blog daily or those who keep tabs of their day-to-day living in journal or diary. Do people still do that? Write in diary/journal, I mean. Things are so digitalised nowadays that I won't be surprised if the simple act of writing on papers will cease to exist five years to come. I know I know, it's more environmental friendly  but the way how we so heavily rely on devices such as smartphones etc terrifies me a lot.

Maybe it's not so much the whole technology thingamajig as the notion of depending that sends me running but oh well, that's a topic for another day. What I was trying to say is that I don't know what to say anymore. I have twelve unfinished blogposts, sitting patiently in queue, waiting for that moment when I deign it is time to give them a conclusion; an ending; anything that is not half written. But that is what you have been reduced to, my subconscious fervently reminded me.

Which, sadly to say, is true.

The last time I wrote something was more than a year ago. And if I were to exclude it for the reason that, that was for my creative writing assignment, it would have been more than two years already. This...this inability of mine renders me emotionally crippled most days.

I  find it ironic, amusing on good days but ironic nonetheless, that I've stopped writing as soon as I enrolled myself for a career in putting words together. Isn't this a mockery? Materials to base a satire on? The writer who can't write. The only unfortunate thing here is that I fail to find any trace of humour in it. Nope, not even a smidgen and herein lies my problem: I can't write anymore, not even to ridicule my lack of ability for doing so.

I've reached an impasse and I'm neck-deep in it. With this latest pit stop in my life, I've been left with nothing to do but think - to ruminate on whether if I've made the right choices, done the right thing. Because at the end of the day, journalism is not my passion; writing is.

And if I'm not even capable of the one thing that I am truly, madly, deeply in love with, then what else am I living for?